She was silent a minute. Then she said:
“What a long time you have been away! And now I am too ill to play with you!” Then a faint smile crossed her features. “See poor To-to!” she exclaimed, feebly, as her eyes fell on a battered old doll in the spangled dress of a carnival clown that lay at the foot of her bed. “Poor dear old To-to! He will think I do not love him any more, because my throat hurts me. Give him to me, papa!”
And as I obeyed her request she encircled the doll with one arm, while she still clung to me with the other, and added:
“To-to remembers you, papa; you know you brought him from Rome, and he is fond of you, too—but not as fond as I am!” And her dark eyes glittered feverishly. Suddenly her glance fell on Assunta, whose gray head was buried in her hands as she knelt.
“Assunta!”
The old woman looked up.
“Bambinetta!” she answered, and her aged voice trembled.
“Why are you crying?” inquired Stella with an air of plaintive surprise. “Are you not glad to see papa?”
Her words were interrupted by a sharp spasm of pain which convulsed her whole body—she gasped for breath—she was nearly suffocated. Assunta and I raised her up gently and supported her against her pillows; the agony passed slowly, but left her little face white and rigid, while large drops of sweat gathered on her brow. I endeavored to soothe her.
“Darling, you must not talk,” I whispered, imploringly; “try to be very still—then the poor throat will not ache so much.”