"Forgive me; I can't help it," she besought him with an imploring glance.
"You shouldn't say of anything that you can't help it. You should be strong enough to govern yourself in all circumstances," was the axiom of Cesare Dias.
"I will try."
One day in April, Stella Martini, coming home from a walk with Laura, brought her some flowers—some beautiful wild rosebuds, which in Naples blossom so early in the year. Anna was seated in an easy-chair near the window, through which entered the soft spring air; and when she saw Laura and Stella come into the house—Laura dressed in white, breathing peace and youth from every line of her figure—Stella with her face that seemed to have been scalded and shrivelled up by tears shed long ago, both bearing great quantities of fresh sweet roses, the poor girl's heart swelled with indescribable tenderness.
Holding the roses in her hand, she caressed them, touched them with her face, buried her lips in them, and said under her voice: "Thank you, thank you," as if in her weakness she could find no other words to express her pleasure.
Cesare Dias, arriving a little later, found her in rapt contemplation over her flowers, her great fond eyes glowing with joy. A shadow crossed his face.
"See, they have brought me these flowers," she said. "Aren't they lovely?"
"I see them," he said, drily.
"Aren't you fond of flowers? They're so fresh and fragrant. I hope you're fond of them; I adore them."
And in the fervour of her last phrase she closed her eyes.