"It is impossible," she sighed, pressing his hand upon her wasted bosom. "Adelaide"—he hesitated; after awhile—"I would ask you a question—a question which, if you can, I entreat that you will answer." She looked at him inquiringly, and he resumed, in a low voice: "What became of Gina Montani?" Even amidst the pallid hue of death, a flush appeared in her cheeks at the words. She gasped once or twice with agitation before she could speak. "Bring not up that subject now; the only one that came between us to disturb our peace—the one to which I am indebted for my death. I am lying dying before you, Giovanni, and you can think but of her." "My love, why will you so misunderstand me?" "These thoughts excite me dreadfully," she continued. "Let us banish them, if you would have peace visit me in dying." "May your death be far away yet," he sighed. "Ah! I trust so—a little longer—a few days with you and my dear child!" And the count clasped his hands together as he silently echoed her prayer. "Will you reach me my small casket?" she continued; "I put a few trinkets in it, yesterday, to leave as tokens of remembrance. I must show you how I wish them bestowed." He rose from his seat, and looked about the room; but he could not find the jewelcase. "The small one, Giovanni," she said; "not my diamond casket. I thought it was in the mosaic cabinet. Or, perhaps, they may have taken it into my dressing-room." He went into the adjoining apartment, and had found the missing casket, when a shriek of horror from the lips of the Lady Adelaide smote his ear. He was in an instant at her bedside, supporting her in his arms; the attendants also came running in. "My dearest Adelaide, what is it that excites you thus?" But his inquiries were in vain. She lay in his arms, sobbing convulsively, and clinging to him as if in terror. Broken words came from her at length: "I looked up—when you were away—and saw—there, in that darkened recess—_her_. I did—I did, Giovanni!" "Whom?" he said becoming very pale. "Her—Gina Montani. She was in white—a long dress it seemed. Oh! Giovanni, leave me not again." "I will never leave you, Adelaide. But this—it must have been a fancy—an illusion of the imagination. We had just been speaking of her." "You remember," she sobbed, "the night our child died—nurse saw the same spectre. It may—" The lady’s voice failed her, and her husband started, for a rapid change was taking place in her countenance.