She made a cushion of her cloak and laid the little one upon it, for he
still slept and she would not waken him; and then, though the quaint,
inlaid pavement was cold and bare, she knelt again, her rosary dropping
from her hands as she shyly whispered the burden of her strange new
confession to this ever-waiting, tender Mother--her confession more full
of pain than joy, yet already dear, and a thing not to be surrendered,
though it should bring her only pain.
But there was no other friend to whom she told it.
Soon, alas! the days grew over-full of pain, and Marina came more often
to the Mater Dolorosa, for the little Zuane had not grown stronger with
the coming of the spring; sleep came to him more easily, but it did not
bring refreshment, and the roses on his cheeks were only signs of
failing bloom. Passionately Marina's loving prayers were breathed
before the shrine of the Madonna San Donato, but the little one grew
weaker every day, till, after a long night of watching, a sweet-voiced
nun stood with Marina beside the cradle.
"The burden of the baby's suffering life is changed to blessing," she
said. "Earth held no joy for him; God hath been merciful beyond thy
prayer, my daughter."