She looked at Maurice humbly for directions; his eyes plainly said—­yes, it was time she should withdraw.  She went into the other room—­rather blindly, as it seemed to her—­and she sank into a chair, still trembling and exhausted; but Francie was by her side in a moment.

“Did he know you?” she asked in an undertone.

“Yes, I think,” Nina answered.  “But oh, he looks so strange—­so different.  He has suffered.  It is terrible; but I am glad that I came—­”

“It is so kind of you—­for I see you are so tired!” said Francie, in her gentle way.  “Perhaps you have been travelling?”

“Only last night—­but I did not sleep any—­”

“Shall I get you some tea?” was the next inquiry.

But here the old doctor, who had been stealthily moving about the room, interfered, and produced a biscuit-box and a decanter of port wine and a glass; while the old lady begged Miss Ross to take off her cloak and remain with them a little while.  At this moment Mangan came out from the sick-room.

“Doctor,” said he in a whisper, “you must go in presently; I think you’ll see a difference.  He is quite pleased and content—­talking to himself a little, but not complaining any more.  Twice he has said, ‘Maurice, Nina has spoken at last.’”

There was a tinkle of a bell; Maurice answered it with the swiftness of a nurse in a hospital.  He returned in a minute, looking a little puzzled.

“He wants to make quite sure you have been here,” he said to Nina, in the same undertone; “and I told him you were in the next room, but that you were tired, and could not see him just now.  No, I don’t think it would do for you to go back at present—­what do you say, doctor?—­he seems so much more tranquil, and it would be a pity to run any risk.  But if you could just let him know you were here—­he might hear your talking to us—­that would be no harm—­”

[Illustration:  “She threw herself on her knees by the bedside and seized his hand.”]

“I know how to tell Leo that I am here,” Nina said, simply; and she went to the piano and opened it.  Then, with the most exquisite softness, she began to play some familiar Neapolitan airs—­slowly and gently, so that they must have sounded in the sick-chamber like mere echoes of song coming from across wide waters.  And would he not understand that it was Nina who was speaking to him; that she was only a few yards from him; and not the ghostly Nina who had so often come to the sick-room door and remained there strangely silent, but the wilful, gentle, capricious, warm-hearted cianciosella who had kissed his hand but a little while ago, and wept over it, amid her bitter sobs.  These were love-songs for the most part that she was playing; but that was neither here nor there; the soft, rippling notes were more like the sound of a trickling waterfall in some still summer solitude. “Cannetella, oje Cannete!” “Chello che tu me dice, Nenna, non boglio fa.” “Io te voglio bene assaje, e tu non pienz’ a me!” He would know it was Nina who was playing for him—­until slowly and more slowly, and gently and more gently, the velvet-soft notes gradually ceased, and at length there was silence.