During my frequent visits to the villa I saw much of my child Stella. She became passionately attached to me--poor little thing!--her love was a mere natural instinct, had she but known it. Often, too, her nurse, Assunta, would bring her to my hotel to pass an hour or so with me. This was a great treat to her, and her delight reached its climax when I took her on my knee and told her a fairy story--her favorite one being that of a good little girl whose papa suddenly went away, and how the little girl grieved for him till at last some kind fairies helped her to find him again. I was at first somewhat afraid of old Assunta--she had been MY nurse--was it possible that she would not recognize me? The first time I met her in my new character I almost held my breath in a sort of suspense--but the good old woman was nearly blind, and I think she could scarce make out my lineaments. She was of an entirely different nature to Giacomo the butler--she thoroughly believed her master to be dead, as indeed she had every reason to do, but strange to say, Giacomo did not. The old man had a fanatical notion that his "young lord" could not have died so suddenly, and he grew so obstinate on the point that my wife declared he must be going crazy. Assunta, on the other hand, would talk volubly of my death and tell me with assured earnestness: "It was to be expected, eccellenza--he was too good for us, and the saints took him. Of course our Lady wanted him--she always picks out the best among us. The poor Giacomo will not listen to me, he grows weak and childish, and he loved the master too well--better," and here her voice would deepen into reproachful solemnity, "yes, better actually than St. Joseph himself! And of course one is punished for such a thing. I always knew my master would die young--he was too gentle as a baby, and too kind-hearted as a man to stay here long."
And she would shake her gray head and feel for the beads of her rosary, and mutter many an Ave for the repose of my soul. Much as I wished it, I could never get her to talk about her mistress--it was the one subject on which she was invariably silent. On one occasion when I spoke with apparent enthusiasm of the beauty and accomplishments of the young countess, she glanced at me with sudden and earnest scrutiny--sighed--but said nothing. I was glad to see how thoroughly devoted she was to Stella, and the child returned her affection with interest--though as the November days came on apaces my little one looked far from strong. She paled and grew thin, her eyes looked preternaturally large and solemn, and she was very easily wearied. I called Assunta's attention to these signs of ill-health; she replied that she had spoken to the countess, but that "madam" had taken no notice of the child's weakly condition. Afterward I mentioned the matter myself to Nina, who merely smiled gratefully up in my face and answered: "Really, my dear conte, you are too good! There is nothing the matter with Stella, her health is excellent; she eats too many bonbons, perhaps, and is growing rather fast, that is all. How kind you are to think of her! But, I assure you, she is quite well."