It was still early in the morning when Elettra brought her a letter,
bearing the postmark of the city, and addressed in one of those small,
clear handwritings which seem naturally to belong to scholars and
students. It was from Don Teodoro, and Veronica read it while she drank
her tea and Elettra was making a fire in the next room.
The old priest did not refer to the strange story he had told her ten
days earlier. But he recalled her question concerning the people at Muro
and their condition. They were indeed desperately poor, he said, and the
winter was a hard one in the mountains. There were many sick, and there
was no hospital,--not so much as a room in which a dying beggar might
lie out of the cold. It was a very pitiful tale, told carefully and
accurately. And at the end the good man humbly begged that the most
Excellent Princess would deign to allow his stipend to be paid in
advance, in order that he might do something to help his poor.
Veronica read the letter twice, and judged it. Then she determined to do
something at once, for she knew that the man had written the truth. She
should have liked to send for him, and talk with him of what should be
done; but she could not forget the things he had said about Bosio, and
for that reason she did not wish to see him again--at least, not yet.
His mind was unbalanced about that matter; but charity was a different
thing.
His address in Naples was in the letter. She wrote a note in answer,
begging him to tell her how much money he should need to hire a vacant
house, since there was no time to build one, and to fit it decently with
what he thought necessary, in order that it might serve as a refuge and
hospital for the very poor.
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