"Are you in pain, my dear?" I softly asked.
"No!" she answered in a tiny voice, so faint and far away that we held our breath to listen to it; "I am quite well now. Assunta must dress me in my white frock again now papa is here. I knew he would come back!"
And she turned her eyes upon me with a look of bright intelligence.
"Her brain wanders," said the doctor, in a low, pitying voice; "it will soon be over."
Stella did not hear him; she turned and nestled in my arms, asking in a sort of babbling whisper: "You did not go away because I was naughty, did you, papa?"
"No darling!" I answered, hiding my face in her curls.
"Why do you have those ugly black things on?" she asked, in the feeblest and most plaintive tone imaginable, so weak that I myself could scarcely hear it; "has somebody hurt your eyes? Let me see your eyes!" I hesitated. Dare I humor her in her fancy? I glanced up. The doctor's head again was turned away, Assunta was on her knees, her face buried in the bed-clothes, praying to her saints; quick as thought I slipped my spectacles slightly down, and looked over them full at my little one. She uttered a soft cry of delight--"Papa! papa!" and stretched out her arms, then a strong and terrible shudder shook her little frame. The doctor came closer--I replaced my glasses without my action being noticed, and we both bent anxiously over the suffering child. Her face paled and grew livid--she made another effort to speak--her beautiful eyes rolled upward and became fixed--she sighed--and sunk back on my shoulder--dying--dead! My poor little one! A hard sob stifled itself in my throat--I clasped the small lifeless body close in my embrace, and my tears fell hot and fast. There was a long silence in the room--a deep, an awe-struck, reverent silence, while the Angel of Death, noiselessly entering and departing, gathered my little white rose for his Immortal garden of flowers.