"Does it suit you that we should go there?" I asked, fearfully, almost humbly.
She consented by a nod.
"I see you are not well," I added, "nor am I well. Perhaps the country ... the spring..."
She was stretched out in an arm-chair, the arms of which supported her white hands, and that attitude recalled another attitude—that of the convalescent on the morning when she first rose, after I had told her.
The departure was decided upon. We made our preparations. A hope shone in the depth of my soul, but I dared not look straight at it.
I.
My first recollection is as follows:
By this, when I began this narrative, I meant: "Among my recollections this is the first in any way connected with the frightful thing."
It was, therefore, in April. We had been at the Badiola for several days.
"Ah! my children," my mother had said, with her unceremonious candor, "how pale you both look! Oh! that Rome, that Rome. To put some color in your cheeks you must stay in the country with me for a long, long time."