'Darling!' he whispered, patting her brown hair as her head leant for a moment on his strong, faithful heart.
'Promise me one thing ...' she asked in a babyish way.
'Say what it is....'
'Promise me you won't think ill of my father—promise! He is the best of fathers; any girl would be proud to have him. Nothing could shake my respect and love for him. I want you not to blame him for anything—promise me! His fatal tendency is only part of his kindness. He is so unhappy at heart!'
'I promise you, Bianca, to be as indulgent as you could be.'
'That is enough. He is an unhappy man. For years and years our house has been going down. Since when or why I don't remember. I was very little. I don't even know whose fault it is. I don't wish to. I only remember that my mother was pale and sickly; her hands were always cold....'
'Like yours, poor dear!'
'Like mine?' she answered with a pale smile.
'What did your mother die of?'