"But now," said Paoluccio, swallowing, "if you are not careful she will
break all your bones. She has the health of a horse."

So the couple discussed matters amiably, while Regina was out of the
way.

In a garret that had a small unglazed window looking to the north, the
girl was bending over a wretched trestle-bed, which was literally the
only piece of furniture in the room; and on the coarse mattress, stuffed
with the husks and leaves of maize, lay all that the fever had left of
Marcello Consalvi, shivering under a tattered brown blanket. There was
little more than the shadow of the boy, and his blue eyes stared dully
up at the girl's face. But there was life in him still, thanks to her,
and though there was no expression in his gaze, his lips smiled faintly,
and faint words came from them.

"Thank you," he said, "I am better to-day. Yes, I could eat something."

Regina bent lower, smiling happily, and she kissed the boy's face three
times; she kissed his eyes and dry lips. And he, too, smiled again.

Then she left the bedside and went to a dark corner, where she
cautiously moved aside a loose board. From the recess she took a common
tumbler and a bottle of old wine and a battered iron spoon. She crouched
upon the floor, because there was no table; she took two fresh eggs out
of the folds of the big red and yellow cotton handkerchief that covered
her shoulders and was crossed over her bosom, and she broke them into
the glass, and hid the empty shells carefully in the folds again, so
that they should not be found in the room. For she had stolen these for