She related how her husband, the lithographer, had but just struck off hundreds of thousands of the Pope's pictures. Now, if the Pope were to die, he wouldn't be able to sell half of them--no, not even a quarter of them. He would be ruined. Their entire fortune was at stake. She rushed on to gather some fresh news, wherewith she might comfort her poor husband, who did not dare venture out, but sat at home and brooded over his misfortune. Her mother stood still on the street, mumbling to herself: "It won't do for him to die. It will never do for him to die!" She walked into the first church she came to. There she fell upon her knees and prayed for the life of the Pope. As she arose to leave, she happened to lift her eyes to a little votive tablet which hung on the wall just above her head. The tablet was a representation of Death raising a terrifying two-edged sword to mow down a young girl, while her mother, who had cast herself in his path, tries in vain to receive the blow in place of her child. She stood long before the picture, musing. "Signor Death is a careful arithmetician," she remarked. "One has never heard of his agreeing to exchange an old person for a young one." She remembered her son's words that he would be willing to die in the Pope's stead, and a shudder passed through her whole body. "Think, if Death were to take him at his word!" "No, no, Signor Death!" she whispered. "You mustn't believe him. You must understand that he didn't mean what he said. He wants to live. He doesn't want to leave his old mother, who loves him." For the first time the thought struck her that if any one should sacrifice himself for the Pope, it were better that she did it--she, who was already old and had lived her life. When she left the church, she happened into the company of some nuns of the saintliest and most devout appearance, who lived in the northern part of the country. They had travelled down to Rome to obtain a little help from the Pope's treasury. "We are actually in the most dire need of aid," they told old Concenza. "Only think! our convent was so old and dilapidated that it blew down during the severe storm of last winter. We may not now present our case to him. If he should die, we must return home with an unaccomplished mission. Who can know if his successor will be the sort of man who will trouble himself to succor poor nuns?" It seemed as if all the people were thinking the same thoughts. It was very easy to get into converse with any one. Each and all whom Signora Concenza approached let her know that the Pope's death would be for them a terrible misfortune. The old woman repeated again and again to herself: "My son is right. It will never do for the Pope to die."