Saying these words, the doctor turned to lead the way out of the room, and observed Nanina, who had moved from the bedside on his entrance, standing near the door.  He stopped to look at her, shook his head good-humoredly, and called to Marta, who happened to be occupied in an adjoining room.

“Signora Marta,” said the doctor, “I think you told me some time ago that your pretty and careful little assistant lives in your house.  Pray, does she take much walking exercise?”

“Very little, Signor Dottore.  She goes home to her sister when she leaves the palace.  Very little walking exercise, indeed.”

“I thought so!  Her pale cheeks and heavy eyes told me as much.  Now, my dear,” said the doctor, addressing Nanina, “you are a very good girl, and I am sure you will attend to what I tell you.  Go out every morning before you come here, and take a walk in the fresh air.  You are too young not to suffer by being shut up in close rooms every day, unless you get some regular exercise.  Take a good long walk in the morning, or you will fall into my hands as a patient, and be quite unfit to continue your attendance here.  Now, Signor Andrea, I am ready for you.  Mind, my child, a walk every day in the open air outside the town, or you will fall ill, take my word for it!”

Nanina promised compliance; but she spoke rather absently, and seemed scarcely conscious of the kind familiarity which marked the doctor’s manner.  The truth was, that all her thoughts were occupied with what he had been saying by Fabio’s bedside.  She had not lost one word of the conversation while the doctor was talking of his patient, and of the conditions on which his recovery depended.  “Oh, if that proof which would cure him could only be found!” she thought to herself, as she stole back anxiously to the bedside when the room was empty.

On getting home that day she found a letter waiting for her, and was greatly surprised to see that it was written by no less a person than the master-sculptor, Luca Lomi.  It was very short; simply informing her that he had just returned to Pisa, and that he was anxious to know when she could sit to him for a new bust—­a commission from a rich foreigner at Naples.

Nanina debated with herself for a moment whether she should answer the letter in the hardest way, to her, by writing, or, in the easiest way, in person; and decided on going to the studio and telling the master-sculptor that it would be impossible for her to serve him as a model, at least for some time to come.  It would have taken her a long hour to say this with due propriety on paper; it would only take her a few minutes to say it with her own lips.  So she put on her mantilla again and departed for the studio.

On, arriving at the gate and ringing the bell, a thought suddenly occurred to her, which she wondered had not struck her before.  Was it not possible that she might meet Father Rocco in his brother’s work-room?  It was too late to retreat now, but not too late to ask, before she entered, if the priest was in the studio.  Accordingly, when one of the workmen opened the door to her, she inquired first, very confusedly and anxiously, for Father Rocco.  Hearing that he was not with his brother then, she went tranquilly enough to make her apologies to the master-sculptor.