There was no one in the little reading-room.

In that reading-room Maria and Giovanni had spent two happy hours, hand in hand, talking with hushed voices, often trembling in fear lest some one should come in.
"Do you remember," said Maria, "that there was a fireplace in the room, near the sofa where we sat ?" "Yes, dear." "And that it was cold, although it was May; so cold that the waiter came in to light the fire ?" "Yes, and it was then I made you cry." "Could you repeat those same words to-day ?" "Oh, no!" So saying, Giovanni kissed his wife's white forehead reverently, as if it were a holy thing.

When the waiter came in to light the fire in the little salon at Hergyswyl, Giovanni had dropped the beloved hand, and had said, while the servant still lingered: "The old log will surely burn on to the end, but who can tell how long the youthful flame will last ?" Maria had not answered, but had looked at him, her eyes dilating, and dimmed by the cold touch of the unjust suspicion, as the glass of a hothouse is dimmed by the touch of a frost outside.
No, Giovanni had never again harboured such a thought.

He and Maria often said to each other that perhaps there was no other union on earth like theirs, so penetrated with, so full of peace derived from the solemnly sweet and grave certainty that, no matter how God might order their existence after death, their spirits would surely be united in the love of the Divine Will.

Nevertheless, they did not neglect to lay the desire of their souls before the Almighty.