'She is resting; she is better—she is much better,' muttered the poor old woman, putting a finger to her lips to enjoin silence.
The father's dry eyes filled with tears; it was the first good news in ten days' anguish and fears. He, too, went into his daughter's room, sitting down in his usual place, watching the thin face, where the great nervous tension seemed to have given way to a favourable crisis.
Margherita, so as not to disturb Bianca Maria's sleep, dared not make use of the thermometer to find out her temperature, but her heart told her the fever had certainly gone down. Then, both silent, she praying inwardly and the Marquis di Formosa fishing up some shreds of prayer from the depths of his clouded conscience, they spent two hours watching over the invalid's quiet sleep. It was dusk when she opened her eyes—the large eyes that had been shut for ten days by fever's burning, leaden hand, and at once Margherita leant over her, questioning her:
'How do you feel?'
To her astonishment, the girl, instead of answering with a wave of the hand or a nod, said in a very feeble voice:
'I am better.'
Also the Marquis di Formosa had come up beside the bed, and, quivering with joy, he said over and over again:
'My child! my child!'
'Do you want anything?' the waiting-woman asked, for the sake of hearing the feeble voice which had gone to her heart.