The weary days of pain and
illness had given Angela a strange, new beauty,--her face, delicate
and pale, seemed transfigured by the working of the soul within,--
and her eyes, tired as they were and often heavy with tears, had a
serenity in their depths which was not of earth, but all of Heaven.
She was able now to move from her bed, and lie on a couch near the
fire,--and her little white hands moved caressingly and with loving
care among the bunches of beautiful flowers which Sylvie had laid on
her coverlet,--daffodils, anemones, narcissi, violets, jonquils, and
all the sweet-scented flowers of early spring which come to Rome in
December from the blossoming fields of Sicily.
"How sweet they are!" she said with a half sigh,--"They almost make
me in love with life again!"
Sylvie said nothing, but only kissed her.
"How good you are to me, dearest Sylvie!" she then said--"You
deserve to be very happy!"
"Not half so much as you do!" responded Sylvie tenderly--"I am of no
use at all to the world; and you are! The world would not miss me a
bit, but it would not find an Angela Sovrani again in a hurry!"
Angela raised a cluster of narcissi and inhaled their fine and
delicate perfume. There were tears in her eyes, but she hid them
with a spray of the flowers.
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