"Yes, I’m quite well," she said, and she played nervously with the cork in the little bottle. It was a delicate subject. She began to wish that she had never embarked upon it at all. But faith brings with it a rare quality of courage, and so firmly did she believe, with the quaint simplicity of her heart, in the course she had determined to adopt, that the wish broke like a bubble on the moment. "Well, what is in the bottle?" persisted John. "Ignatia." There was just the faintness of a whisper in her voice. She had not found full courage as yet. Even in their firmest beliefs, old people are pursued by the fear of being thought foolish. The new generation always frightens them; it knows so much more than they. "Ignatia?" John repeated. "Yes--I--I want you to take it." She began uncorking the bottle. "Me? What for? I’m all right. I’m not ill." "No--but----" she paused. "But what?" "It’ll do you good. Try it, to please me." She hid her white head against his coat. "But what for, dearest?" "Have you never heard of Ignatia?" she asked. John shook his head. "It’s a plant. It’s a homeopathic medicine. It’s a cure for all sorts of things. People take it when their nerves are bad, for worry, for insomnia. It’s a cure for trouble when--when you’re in love." She said it so simply, in such fear that he would laugh; but when he looked down and found the hopefulness in her eyes, laughter was impossible. He caught it back, but his nostrils quivered. "And do you want to cure me of being in love?" he asked with a straightened face. "I thought you’d be happier, my dear, if you could get over it." "So you recommend Ignatia?" "I’ve known it do wonders," she asserted. "Poor Claudina was very much in love with a worthless fellow--Tina--one of the gondolier!--surely you remember him. He lived on the _Giudecca_." John nodded smiling. "Well, she came to me one day, crying her heart out. She declared she was in love with the most worthless man in the whole of Venice. ’Get over it then, Claudina,’ I said. But she assured me that it was impossible. He had only to put up his little finger, she said and she had to go to his beckoning, if only to tell him how worthless she thought he was. Well--I prescribed Ignatia, and she was cured of it in a week. She laughs when she talks about him now." John was forced to smile, but as quickly it died away. "And is that what you want me to do?" he asked. "Do you want me to be able to laugh when I talk about the lady of St. Joseph? You’d be as sorry as I should, if I did. It would hurt you as much as it would me." "Then you won’t take it, John?" She looked up imploringly into his face. "No--no charms or potions for me. Besides--" he bent down close to her ear--"the lady of St. Joseph is in Venice. She’s coming to see you this afternoon." With a little cry of delight, she threw the bottle of Ignatia down upon the table and caught his face in her trembling hands.