The countess checked herself and stopped short, turning an emerald ring which she wore. She was pale.
"There was what?" asked Bosio, in an unsteady tone.
"There was just the bare possibility that she might die before January," said Matilde, almost in a whisper. "People die young sometimes, you know—very young. It pleases Providence to do strange things. Of course it would be most dreadful, if she were to die, would it not? It would be lonely in the house, without her. It seems to me that I should see her at night, in the dark corners, when I should be alone. Ugh!"
Matilde Macomer shivered suddenly, and then stared at Bosio with frightened eyes. He glanced at her nervously.
"I am afraid of you," he said.
"Of me?" Her presence of mind returned. "What an idea! just because I suggested that poor little Veronica might catch a cold or a fever in this horrible weather and might die of the one or the other? And just because I am fond of her, and said that I should be afraid of seeing her in the dark! Heaven give her a hundred years of life! Why should we talk of such sad things?"
"It is certainly not I who wish to talk of them, or think of them," answered Bosio, thoughtfully, and turning once more to the fire. "You are overwrought, Matilde—you are unhappy, afraid of the future—what shall I say? Sometimes you speak in a strange way."
"Is it any wonder? The case is desperate, and I am desperate, too—"
"Do not say it—"
"Then say that you will marry Veronica, and save us all, and bring peace into the house—for my sake, Bosio—for me!"