"He never saw her again?"

"Never, but he worshipped her very name and she was a tower of strength

to him. 'Mothers!' he used to say, 'if you only knew your power! God be

merciful to the wayward one who has no mother!'"

Roma's throat was throbbing. "He ... he was married?"

"Yes. His wife was an Englishwoman, almost as friendless as himself."

"Eyes the other way, at the window--thank you!... Did she know who he

was?"

"Nobody knew. He was only a poor Italian doctor to all of us in Soho."

"They ... they were ... happy?"

"As happy as love and friendship could make them. And even when poverty

came...."

"He became poor--very poor?"

"Very! It got known that Doctor Roselli was a revolutionary, and then

his English patients began to be afraid. The house in Soho Square had to

be given up at last, and we went into a side street. Only two rooms now,

one to the front, the other to the back, and four of us to live in them,

but the misery of that woman's outward circumstances never dimmed the

radiance of her sunny soul."

Roma's bosom was heaving and her voice was growing thick. "She ...

died?"

David Rossi bent his head and spoke in short, jerky sentences. "Her

death came at the bitterest moment of want. It was Christmas time. Very

cold and raw. We hadn't too much at home to keep us warm. She caught a

cold and it settled on her chest. Pneumonia! Only three or four days

altogether. She lay in the back room; it was quieter. The doctor nursed

her constantly. How she fought for life! She was thinking of her little

daughter. Just six years of age at that time, and playing with her doll

on the floor."

His voice had enough to do to control itself.

"When it was all over we went into the front room and made our beds on a

blanket spread out on the bare boards. Only three of us now--the child

with her father, weeping for the mother lying cold the other side of the

wall."

His eyes were still looking out at the window. In Roma's eyes the tears

were gathering.

"We were nearly penniless, but our good angel was buried somehow. Oh,

the poor are the richest people in the world! I love them! I love them!"

Roma could not look at him any longer.

"It was in the cemetery of Kensal Green. There was a London fog and the

grave-diggers worked by torches, which smoked in the thick air. But the

doctor stood all the time with his head uncovered. The child was there

too, and driving home she looked out of the window and sometimes laughed

at the sights in the streets. Only six--and she had never been in a

coach before!"




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