The light began to fail, and Miss Alcott slipped in noiselessly
again to light a small lamp out of sight of the patient. "The doctor will
soon be here," she whispered to Buntingford.
The light of the lamp roused the woman. She made a sign to Miss Alcott to
lift her a little.
"Not much," said the Rector's sister in Buntingford's ear. "It's the
heart that's wrong."
Together they raised her just a little. Miss Alcott put a fan into
Buntingford's hands, and opened the windows wider.
"I'm all right," said the stranger irritably. "Let me alone. I've got a
lot to say." She turned her eyes on Buntingford. "Do you want to
know--about Rocca?"
"Yes."
"He died seven years ago. He was always good to me--awfully good to me
and to the boy. We lived in a horrible out-of-the-way place--up in the
mountains near Naples. I didn't want you to know about the boy. I wanted
revenge. Rocca changed his name to Melegrani. I called myself Francesca
Melegrani. I used to exhibit both at Naples and Rome. Nobody ever found
out who we were."
"What made you put that notice in the _Times_?"
She smiled faintly, and the smile recalled to him an old expression of
hers, half-cynical, half-defiant.
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