"Well, I don't read Italian," said Mrs. Travis to Barbara, "but if English would do, I should really like to sit with her for an hour sometimes. I never sleep myself if I go to bed before midnight. Do you think she would care for my company?" "I am sure she would be grateful to you," answered Barbara, who felt that she might now exhibit a little politeness. "Then please ask her if I may come to-night." This request was readily granted, and at about half-past nine Mrs. Travis went into the sick-chamber, taking in her hand a volume of Browning. Madeline had not yet seen the lodger; she returned her greeting in a murmur, and examined her with the steady eyes of one whom great suffering has delivered from all petty embarrassments. Her face was not so calm as when Barbara came to speak to her in the afternoon; lines of pain showed themselves on her forehead, and her thin lips were compressed. "It's very good of you to come," she said, when Mrs. Travis had taken a seat by the bed. "But please don't read anything to-night. I don't feel that I could take any interest. It is so sometimes." "Naturally enough. But do you feel able to talk?" "Yes; I had rather talk. Can you tell me something quite new and different from what I'm accustomed to hear? Do you know any country where I haven't been?" "I haven't travelled much. Last autumn I was in Iceland for a few weeks; would you care to hear of that?" "Very much. Just talk as if you were going over it in your memory. Don't mind if I close my eyes; I shan't be asleep; it helps me to imagine, that's all." Mrs. Travis did as she was asked. Now and then Madeline put a question. When at length there came a pause, she said abruptly: "I suppose it seems dreadful to you, to see me lying here like this?" "It makes me wish I had it in my power to relieve you." "But does it seem dreadful? Could you bear to imagine yourself in the same case? I want you to tell me truthfully. I'm not an uneducated girl, you know; I can think about life and death as people do nowadays." Mrs. Travis looked at her curiously. "I can imagine positions far worse," she answered. "That means, of course, that you could not bear to picture yourself in this. But it's strange how one can get used to it. The first year I suffered horribly--in mind, I mean. But then I still had hope. I have none now, and that keeps my mind calmer. A paradox, isn't it? It's always possible, you know, that I may feel such a life unendurable at last, and then I should hope to find a means of bringing it to an end. For instance, if we become so poor that I am too great a burden. Of course I wouldn't live in a hospital. I don't mean I should be too proud, but the atmosphere would be intolerable. And one really needn't live, after one has decided that it's no use." "I don't know what to say about that," murmured Mrs. Travis.