"Forget not thy father's friend." So almost daily went the bright idol of Naples to the house of Bernardi.

Suddenly a heavier affliction than either poverty or the palsy befell the old musician.

His grandchild, his little Beatrice, fell ill, suddenly and dangerously ill, of one of those rapid fevers common to the South; and Viola was summoned from her strange and fearful reveries of love or fancy, to the sick-bed of the young sufferer.
The child was exceedingly fond of Viola, and the old people thought that her mere presence would bring healing; but when Viola arrived, Beatrice was insensible.

Fortunately there was no performance that evening at San Carlo, and she resolved to stay the night and partake its fearful cares and dangerous vigil.
But during the night the child grew worse, the physician (the leechcraft has never been very skilful at Naples) shook his powdered head, kept his aromatics at his nostrils, administered his palliatives, and departed.
Old Bernardi seated himself by the bedside in stern silence; here was the last tie that bound him to life.

Well, let the anchor break and the battered ship go down! It was an iron resolve, more fearful than sorrow.
An old man, with one foot in the grave, watching by the couch of a dying child, is one of the most awful spectacles in human calamities.