Loving hearts sympathized with her, tender hands cared for her, vigilant eyes watched her, and all that love and care could do were unremittingly exerted for her benefit. As Beatrice opened her eyes after her long unconsciousness she looked around in wonder, recognizing nothing. Then they rested in equal wonder upon one who stood by her bedside. She was slender and fragile in form, with delicate features, whose fine lines seemed rather like ideal beauty than real life. The eyes were large, dark, lustrous, and filled with a wonderful but mournful beauty. Yet all the features, so exquisite in their loveliness, were transcended by the expression that dwelt upon them. It was pure, it was spiritual, it was holy. It was the face of a saint, such a face as appears to the rapt devotee when fasting has done its work, and the quickened imagination grasps at ideal forms till the dwellers in heaven seem to become visible. In her confused mind Beatrice at first had a faint fancy that she was in another state of existence, and that the form before her was one of those pure intelligences who had been appointed to welcome her there. Perhaps there was some such thought visible upon her face, for the stranger came up to her noiselessly, and stooping down, kissed her. “You are among friends,” said she, in a low, sweet voice. “You have been sick long.” “Where am I?” “Among loving friends,” said the other, “far away from the place where you suffered.” Beatrice sighed. “I hoped that I had passed away forever,” she murmured. “Not yet, not yet,” said the stranger, in a voice of tender yet mournful sweetness, which had in it an unfathomable depth of meaning. “We must wait on here, dear friend, till it be His will to call us.” “And who are you?” asked Beatrice, after a long and anxious look at the face of the speaker. “My name is Edith Brandon,” said the other, gently. “Brandon!--Edith Brandon!” cried Beatrice, with a vehemence which contrasted strangely with the scarce-audible words with which she had just spoken. The stranger smiled with the same melancholy sweetness which she had shown before. “Yes,” said she; “but do not agitate yourself, dearest.” “And have you nursed me?” “Partly. But you are in the house of one who is like an angel in her loving care of you.” “But you--you?” persisted Beatrice; “you did not perish, then, as they said?” “No,” replied the stranger; “it was not permitted me.” “Thank God!” murmured Beatrice, fervently. “_He_ has one sorrow less. Did _he_ save you?” “He,” said Edith, “of whom you speak does not know that I am alive, nor do I know where he is. Yet some day we will perhaps meet. And now you must not speak. You will agitate yourself too much. Here you have those who love you. For the one who brought you here is one who would lay down his life for yours, dearest--he is Paolo Langhetti.” “Langhetti!” said Beatrice. “Oh, God be thanked!” “And she who has taken you to her heart and home is his sister.”