smallpox, but if her aunt could not sleep she was compelled to watch
beside her, hold her hand, and listen until morning as she moaned, whined
and prayed, sometimes cursing herself and sometimes the treacherous
world. She, Henrica, had come to the house strong and well, but so much
disgust and anger, such constant struggling to control herself had robbed
her of her health.

The young girl had written until midnight. The letters became more and
more irregular and indistinct, the lines more crooked, and with the last
words: "My head, my poor head! You will see that I am losing my senses.
I beseech you, I beseech you, my dear, stern father, take me home.
I have again heard something about Anna--" her eyes grew dim, her pen
dropped from her hand, and she fell back in the chair unconscious.

There she lay, until the last laugh and sound of rattling glass had died
away below, and her aunt's guests had left the house.

Denise, the cameriera, noticed the light in the room, entered, and after
vainly endeavoring to rouse Henrica, called her mistress.

The latter followed the maid, muttering as she ascended the stairs:

"Fallen asleep, found the time hang heavy--that's all! She might have
been lively and laughed with us! Stupid race! 'Men of butter,' King
Philip says. That wild Lamperi was really impertinent to-night, and the
abbe said things--things--"

The old lady's large eyes were sparkling vinously, and her fan waved
rapidly to and fro to cool the flush on her cheeks.