"Let us hope so. But I don't like that kind of thing at Naples. I trust you haven't had a chill?"
"Oh dear, no! I never was better in my life!"
"Yet with fever? Go to bed. Very likely I shall look into your room in the night.—Cecily!"
It stopped her at her door. She turned, and took a step back. Mrs. Lessingham moved towards her.
"You haven't forgotten anything that you wished to say to me?"
"Forgotten? No, dear aunt."
"It just come back to my mind that you were on the point of saying something a little while ago, and I interrupted you."
"No. Good night."
Mrs. Lessingham did enter the girl's room something after midnight, carrying a dim taper. Cecily was asleep, but lay as though fatigue had overcome her after much restless moving upon the pillow. Her face was flushed; one of her hands, that on the coverlet, kept closing itself with a slight spasm. The visitor drew apart and looked about the chamber. Her eyes rested on a little writing-desk, where lay a directed envelope. She looked at it, and found it was addressed to a French servant of theirs in Paris, an excellent woman who loved Cecily, and to whom the girl had promised to write from Italy. The envelope was closed; but it could contain nothing of importance—was merely an indication of Cecily's abiding kindness. By this lay a small book, from the pages of which protruded a piece of white paper. Mrs. Lessingham took up the volume—it was Shelley—and found that the paper within it was folded about a spray of maidenhair, and bore the inscription "House of Meleager Pompeii. Monday, December 8, 1878." Over this the inquisitive lady mused, until a motion of Cecily caused her to restore things rapidly to their former condition.
A movement, and a deep sigh; but Cecily did not awake. Mrs. Lessingham again drew softly near to her, and, without letting the light fall directly upon her face, looked at her for a long time. She whispered feelingly, "Poor girl! poor child!" then, with a sigh almost as deep as that of the slumberer, withdrew.