She turned to the bed. There was the still white head, alone upon the pillow, the powerless hand just showing from beneath the coverlet, still holding its string of beads. "_Buona Giorno, signora,_" she said, trying to make the note of some cheerfulness in her voice. But there was no reply. Far away out in the wonderful city, she heard the cry of a gondolier,--"Ohé"--and in through the window, there floated a butterfly of white, that had been beating its wings against the jalousies outside. Into the room it flew, dipping and dancing, swaying and lifting in the free air of the day just born. THE END