what more could a man desire?

Yet another drop of honey was added to my cup of sweetness. On the
first morning of May, 1882, our child was born--a girl-babe, fair as
one of the white anemones which at that season grew thickly in the
woods surrounding out home. They brought the little one to me in the
shaded veranda where I sat at breakfast with Guido--a tiny, almost
shapeless bundle, wrapped in soft cashmere and old lace. I took the
fragile thing in my arms with a tender reverence; it opened its
eyes; they were large and dark like Nina's, and the light of a
recent heaven seemed still to linger in their pure depths. I kissed
the little face; Guido did the same; and those clear, quiet eyes
regarded us both with a strange half-inquiring solemnity. A bird
perched on a bough of jasmine broke into a low, sweet song, the soft
wind blew and scattered the petals of a white rose at our feet. I
gave the infant back to the nurse, who waited to receive it, and
said, with a smile, "Tell my wife we have welcomed her May-blossom."

Guido laid his hand on my shoulder as the servant retired; his face
was unusually pale.

"Thou art a good fellow, Fabio!" he said, abruptly.

"Indeed! How so?" I asked, half laughingly; "I am no better than
other men."

"You are less suspicious than the majority," he returned, turning
away from me and playing idly with a spray of clematis that trailed
on one of the pillars of the veranda.