In the eyes of some one else also. To Prudence, as he stood there, he looked absolutely beautiful; she felt all a mother's pride rise in her heart as she surveyed him. But she must not let him see it, and she must scold him for wearing his best clothes every day.
"I didn't know it was a festa," she began.
"'Tain't. But one of the fellows has had a sister married, and they've invited us all to a big supper to-night."
"To-night isn't to-day, that I know of."
"Do you wish me to go all covered with sawdust?" said the little dandy, with a disdainful air. "Besides, I wanted to come up here."
"It is a good while sence we've seen you," Prudence admitted. In her heart she was delighted that he had wished to come. "Have you had your dinner, Jo Vanny?"
"All I want. I'll take a bit of bread and some wine by-and-by. But you needn't go to cooking for me, mamma. I say, tell me what it was that made you look so glad?" said the boy, curiously.
"Never you mind now," said Prudence, the gleam of content coming again into her eyes, and lighting up her brown, wrinkled face. She was glad that she had the ten francs; she was glad to see the boy; she was touched by his unselfishness in declining her offer of a second dinner. No other member of the family would have declined or waited to decline; the others would have demanded some freshly cooked dish immediately upon entering; Uncle Patro would have demanded three or four.
"I've brought my mandolin," Jo Vanny went on. "I've got to take it to the supper, of course, because they always want me to sing – I never can get rid of 'em! And so you can hear me, if you like. I know the new songs, and one of them I composed myself. Well, it's rather heavenly."
All Tonio's children sang like birds. Poor Prudence, who had no ear for music, had never been able to comprehend either the pleasure or the profit of the hours they gave to their carollings. But when, in his turn, her little Jo Vanny began his pipings, then she listened, or tried to listen. "Real purty, Jo Vanny," she would say, when the silence of a moment or two had assured her that his song was ended; it was her only way of knowing – the silence.
So now she brought her work out to the garden, and sewed busily while Jo Vanny sang and thrummed. Nounce, too, came out, and sat on the wall near by, listening.
At length the little singer took himself off – took himself off with his red-satin cravat, his horseshoe pin, and his mandolin under his arm. Nounce went back to the house, but Prudence sat awhile longer, using, as she always did, the very last rays of the sunset light for her sewing.
After a while she heard a step, and looked up. "Why, Gooster! – anything the matter?" she said, in surprise.
Unlike the slender little Jo Vanny, Gooster was a large, stoutly built young man, as slow in his motions as Jo Vanny was quick. He was a lethargic fellow with sombre eyes, eyes which sometimes had a gleam in them.
"There's nothing especial the matter," he answered, dully. "I think I'll go for a soldier, Denza."
"Go for a soldier? And the per-dairy?"
"I can't never go back to the podere. She's there, and she has taken up with Matteo. I've had my heart trampled upon, and so I've got a big hankering either to kill somebody or get killed myself; and I'll either do it here, or I'll go for a soldier and get knifed in the war."
"Mercy on us! there isn't any war now," said Prudence, dazed by these sanguinary suggestions.
"There's always a war. What else are there soldiers for? And there's lots of soldiers. But I could get knifed here easy enough; Matteo and I – already we've had one tussle; I gave him a pretty big cut, you may depend."
Seventeen years earlier Prudence Wilkin would have laughed at the idea of being frightened by such words as these. But Mrs. Tonio Guadagni had heard of wild deeds in Assisi, and wilder ones still among the peasants of the hill country roundabout; these singing, indolent Umbrians dealt sometimes in revenges that were very direct and primitive.
"You let Matteo alone, Gooster," she said, putting her hand on his arm; "you go straight over to Perugia and stay there. Perhaps you can get work where Parlo and Squawly are."
"I shall have it out with Matteo here, or else go for a soldier to-morrow," answered Gooster, in his lethargic tone.
"Well, go for a soldier, then."
"It don't make much difference to me which I do," Gooster went on, as if only half awake. "If I go for a soldier, I shall have to get to Florence somehow, I suppose; I shall have to have ten francs for the railroad."
"Is it ten exactly?" said Prudence. Her mind flew to her work-box, which held just that sum.
"It's ten."
"Haven't you got any money at all, Gooster?" She meant to help him on his way; but she thought that she should like to keep, if possible, a nest-egg to begin with again – say twenty cents, or ten.
Gooster felt in his pockets. "Three soldi," he replied, producing some copper coins and counting them over.
"And there's nothing due you at the per-dairy?"
There was no necessity for answering such a foolish question as this, and Gooster did not answer it.
"Well, I will give you the money," said Prudence. "But to-morrow'll do, won't it? Stay here a day or two, and we'll talk it over."
While she was speaking, Gooster had turned and walked towards the garden wall. The sight of his back going from her – as though she should never see it again – threw her into a sudden panic; she ran after him and seized his arm. "I'll give you the money, Gooster; I told you I would; I've got it all ready, and it won't take a minute; promise me that you won't leave this garden till I come back."
Gooster had had no thought of leaving the garden; he had espied a last bunch of grapes still hanging on the vine, and was going to get it; that was all. "All right," he said.
Prudence disappeared. He gathered the grapes and began to eat them, turning over the bunch to see which were best. Before he had finished, Prudence came back, breathless with the haste she had made. "Here," she said; "and now you'll go straight to Florence, won't you? There's a train to-night, very soon now; you must hurry down and take that."
He let her put the money in his coat-pocket while he finished the grapes. Then he threw the stem carefully over the garden wall.
"And no doubt you'll be a brave soldier," Prudence went on, trying to speak hopefully. "Brave soldiers are thought a heap of everywhere."
"I don't know as I care what's thought," answered Gooster, indifferently. He took up his cap and put it on. "Well, good-bye, Denza. Best wishes to you. Every happiness." He shook hands with her.
Prudence stood waiting where she was for five minutes; then she followed him. It was already dark; she went down the hill rapidly, and turned into the narrow main street. A few lamps were lighted. She hastened onward, hoping every minute to distinguish somewhere in front a tall figure with slouching gait. At last, where the road turns to begin the long descent to the plain, she did distinguish it. Yes, that was certainly Gooster; he was going down the hill towards the railway station. All was well, then; she could dismiss her anxiety. She returned through the town. Stopping for a moment at an open space, she gazed down upon the vast valley, now darkening into night; here suddenly a fear came over her – he might have turned round and come back! She hurried through the town a second time, and not meeting him, started down the hill. The road went down in long zigzags. As she turned each angle she expected to see him; but she did not see him, and finally she reached the plain: there were the lights of the station facing her. She drew near cautiously, nearer and nearer, until, herself unseen in the darkness, she could peer through the window into the lighted waiting-room. If he was there, she could see him; but if he was on the platform on the other side – No; he was there. She drew a long breath of relief, and stole away.
A short distance up the hill a wheelbarrow loaded with stones had been left by the side of the road; she sat down on the stones to rest, for the first time realizing how tired she was. The train came rushing along; stopped; went on again. She watched it as long as she could see its lights. Then she rose and turned slowly up the hill, beginning her long walk home. "My," she thought, "won't Granmar be in a tantrum, though!"
When she reached the house she made a circuit, and came through the garden behind towards the back door. "I don't want to see the front yard to-night!" she thought.
But she was rather ashamed of this egotism.
"And they say they'll put me in prison – oh – ow! – an old man, a good old man, a suffering son of humanity like me!" moaned Uncle Pietro.
"An old man, a good old man, a suffering son of humanity like him," repeated Granmar, shrilly, proud of this fine language.
Suddenly she brandished her lean arms. "You Denza there, with your stored-up money made from my starvation – yam! – mine, how dare you be so silent, figure of a mule? Starvation! yes, indeed. Wait and I'll show you my arms, Pietro; wait and I'll show you my ribs – yam!"
"You keep yourself covered up, Granmar," said Prudence, tucking her in; "you'll do yourself a mischief in this cold weather."
"Ahi!" said Granmar, "and do I care? If I could live to see you drowned, I'd freeze and be glad. Stored-up money! stored-up money!"
"What do you know of my money?" said Prudence. Her voice trembled a little.
"She confesses it!" announced Granmar, triumphantly.
"An old ma – an," said Pietro, crouching over Nounce's scaldino. "A good old ma – an. But – accommodate yourself."
Prudence sat down and took up her sewing. "I don't believe they'll put you in jail at all, Patro," she said; "'twon't do 'em any good, and what they want is their money. You just go to 'em and say that you'll do day's work for 'em till it's made up, and they'll let you off, I'll bet. Nine francs, is it? Well, at half a franc a day you can make it up full in eighteen days; or call it twenty-four with the festas."
"The Americans are all mercenary," remarked old Pietro, waving his hand in scorn. "Being themselves always influenced by gain, they cannot understand lofty motives nor the cold, glittering anger of the nobility. The Leoncinis are noble; they are of the old Count's blood. They do not want their money; they want revenge – they want to rack my bones."
Granmar gave a long howl.
"Favor me, my niece, with no more of your mistakes," concluded Pietro, with dignity.
"I don't believe they'd refuse," said Prudence, unmoved. "I'll go and ask 'em myself, if you like; that'll be the best way. I'll go right away now." She began to fold up her work.
At this Pietro, after putting the scaldino safely on the stove, fell down in a round heap on the floor. Never were limbs so suddenly contorted and tangled; he clawed the bricks so fiercely with his fingers that Nounce, frightened, left her bench and ran into the next room.
"What's the matter with you? I never saw such a man," said Prudence, trying to raise him.
"Let be! let be!" called out Granmar; "it's a stroke; and you've brought it on, talking to him about working, working all day long like a horse – a good old man like that."
"I don't believe it's a stroke," said Prudence, still trying to get him up.
"My opinion is," said Granmar, sinking into sudden calm, "that he will die in ten minutes – exactly ten."
His face had indeed turned very red.
"Dear me! I suppose I shall have to run down for the doctor," said Prudence, desisting. "Perhaps he'd ought to be bled."
"You leave the doctor alone, and ease his mind," directed Granmar; "that's what he needs, sensitive as he is, and poetical too, poor fellow. You just shout in his ear that you'll pay that money, and you'll be surprised to see how it'll loosen his joints."
Mrs. Guadagni surveyed the good old uncle for a moment. Then she bent over him and shouted in his ear, "I'll make you a hot fig-tart right away now, Patro, if you'll set up."
As she finished these words Granmar threw her scaldino suddenly into the centre of the kitchen, where it broke with a crash upon the bricks.
"He's going to get up," announced Prudence, triumphantly.
"He isn't any such thing; 'twas the scaldino shook him," responded Granmar, in a loud, admonitory tone. "He'll never get up again in this world unless you shout in his ear that you'll pay that money."
And in truth Pietro was now more knotted than ever.
At this moment the door opened and Jo Vanny came in. "Why, what's the matter with uncle?" he said, seeing the figure on the floor. He bent over him and tried to ease his position.
"It's a stroke," said Granmar, in a soft voice. "It'll soon be over. Hush! leave him in peace. He's dying; Denza there, she did it."
"They want me to pay the nine francs he has – lost," said Prudence. "Perhaps you have heard, Jo Vanny, that he has – lost nine francs that belonged to the Leoncinis? Nine whole francs." She looked at the lad, and he understood the look; for only the day before she had confided to him at last her long-cherished dream, and (as she had been sure he would) he had sympathized with it warmly.
"I declare I wish I had even a franc!" he said, searching his pockets desperately; "but I've only got a cigarette. Will you try a cigarette, uncle?" he shouted in the heap's ear.
"Don't you mock him," ordered Granmar (but Jo Vanny had been entirely in earnest). "He'll die soon, and Denza will be rid of him; that's what she wants. 'Twill be murder, of course; and he'll haunt us – he's always said he'd haunt somebody. But I ain't long for this world, so I ain't disturbed. Heaven's waiting wide open for me."
Jo Vanny looked a little frightened. He hesitated a moment, surveying the motionless Pietro; then he drew Prudence aside. "He's an awful wicked old man, and might really do it," he whispered; "'specially as you ain't a Catholic, mamma. I think you'd better give him the money if it'll stop him off; I don't mind, but it would be bad for you if he should come rapping on your windows and showing corpse-lights in the garden by-and-by."
Prudence brought her hands together sharply – a gesture of exasperation. "He ain't going to die any more than I am," she said. But she knew what life would be in that house with such a threat hanging over it, even though the execution were deferred to some vague future time. Angrily she left the room.
Jo Vanny followed her. "Come along, if you want to," she said, half impatient, half glad. She felt a sudden desire that some one besides herself should see the sacrifice, see the actual despoiling of the little box she had labored to fill. She went to the wood-shed. It was a gloomy December day, and the vegetables hanging on the walls had a dreary, stone-like look; she climbed up on a barrel, and removed the hay which filled a rough shelf; in a niche behind was her work-box; with it in her hand she climbed down again.
She gave him the box to hold while she counted out the money – nine francs. "There are twelve in all," she said.
"Then you'll have three left," said Jo Vanny.
"Yes, three." She could not help a sigh of retrospect, the outgoing nine represented so many long hours of toil.
"Let me put the box back," said the boy. It was quickly and deftly done. "Never mind about it, mamma," he said, as he jumped down. "I'll help you to make it up again. I want that front yard as much as you do, now you've told me about it; I think it will be beautiful."
"Well," said Prudence, "when the flower-beds are all fixed up, and the new front path and swing gate, it will be kind of nice, I reckon."
"Nice?" said Jo Vanny. "That's not the word. 'Twill be an ecstasy! a smile! a dream!"
"Bless the boy, what nonsense he talks!" said the step-mother. But she loved to hear his romantic phrases all the same.
They went back to the kitchen. The sacrifice had now become a cheerful one. She bent over the heap. "Here's your nine francs, Patro," she shouted. "Come, now, come!"
Pietro felt the money in his hand. He rose quietly. "I'm nearly killed with all your yelling," he said. Then he took his hat and left the house.
"We did yell," said Prudence, picking up the fragments of the broken scaldino. "I don't quite know why we did."
"Never mind why-ing, but get supper," said Granmar. "Then go down on your knees and thank the Virgin for giving us such a merciful, mild old man as Pietro. You brought on his stroke; but what did he do? He just took what you gave him, and went away so forgivingly – the soul of a dove, the spice-cake soul!"
In January, the short, sharp winter of Italy had possession of Assisi.
One day towards the last of the month a bitter wind was driving through the bleak, stony little street, sending clouds of gritty, frozen dust before it. The dark, fireless dwellings were colder than the outside air, and the people, swathed in heavy layers of clothing, to which all sorts of old cloaks and shawls and mufflers had been added, were standing about near the open doors of their shops and dwellings, various prominences under apron or coat betraying the hidden scaldino, the earthen dish which Italians tightly hug in winter with the hope that the few coals it contains will keep their benumbed fingers warm. All faces were reddened and frost-bitten. The hands of the children who were too young to hold a scaldino were purple-black.
Prudence Guadagni, with her great basket strapped on her back, came along, receiving but two or three greetings as she passed. Few knew her; fewer still liked her, for was she not a foreigner and a pagan? Besides, what could you do with a woman who drank water, simple water, like a toad, and never touched wine – a woman who did not like oil, good, sweet, wholesome oil! Tonio's children were much commiserated for having fallen into such hands.
Prudence was dressed as she had been in September, save that she now wore woollen stockings and coarse shoes, and tightly pinned round her spare person a large shawl. This shawl (she called it "my Highland shawl") had come with her from America; it was green in hue, plaided; she thought it still very handsome. Her step was not as light as it had been; rheumatism had crippled her sorely.
As she left the town and turned up the hill towards home, some one who had been waiting there joined her. "Is that you, Bepper? Were you coming up to the house?" she said.
"Yes," answered Beppa, showing her white teeth in a smile. "I'm bringing you some news, Denza."
"Well, what is it? I hope you're not going to leave your place?"
"I'm going to leave it, and that's my news: I'm going to be married."
"My! it's sudden, isn't it?" said Prudence, stopping.
"Giuseppe doesn't think it's sudden," said Beppa, laughing and tossing her head; "he thinks I've been ages making up my mind. Come on, Denza, do; it's so cold!"
"I don't know Giuseppe, do I?" said Prudence, trudging on again; "I don't remember the name."
"No; I've never brought him up to the house. But the boys know him – Paolo and Pasquale; Augusto, too. He's well off, Giuseppe is; he's got beautiful furniture. He's a first-rate mason, and gets good wages, so I sha'n't have to work any more – I mean go out to work as I do now."
"Bepper, do you like him?" said Prudence, stopping again. She took hold of the girl's wrist and held it tightly.
"Of course I like him," said Beppa, freeing herself. "How cold your hands are, Denza – ugh!"
"You ain't marrying him for his furniture? You love him for himself – and better than any one else in the whole world?" Prudence went on, solemnly.
"Oh, how comical you do look, standing there talking about love, with your white hair and your great big basket!" said Beppa, breaking into irrepressible laughter. The cold had not made her hideous, as it makes so many Italians hideous; her face was not empurpled, her fine features were not swollen. She looked handsome. What was even more attractive on such a day, she looked warm. As her merriment ceased, a sudden change came over her. "Sainted Maria! she doubts whether I love him! Love him? Why, you poor old woman, I'd die for him to-morrow. I'd cut myself in pieces for him this minute." Her great black eyes gleamed; the color flamed in her oval cheeks; she gave a rich, angry laugh.
It was impossible to doubt her, and Prudence did not doubt. "Well, I'm right down glad, Bepper," she said, in a softened tone – "right down glad, my dear." She was thinking of her own love for the girl's father.
"I was coming up," continued Beppa, "because I thought I'd better talk it over with you."
"Of course," said Prudence, cordially. "A girl can't get married all alone; nobody ever heard of that."
"I sha'n't be much alone, for Giuseppe's family's a very big one; too big, I tell him – ten brothers and sisters. But they're all well off, that's one comfort. Of course I don't want to shame 'em."
"Of course not," said Prudence, assenting again. Then, with the awakened memories still stirring in her heart: "It's a pity your father isn't here now," she said, in a moved tone; "he'd have graced a wedding, Bepper, he was so handsome." She seldom spoke of Tonio; the subject was too sacred; but it seemed to her as if she might venture a few words to this his daughter on the eve of her own marriage.
"Yes, it's a pity, I suppose," answered Beppa. "Still, he would have been an old man now. And 'tain't likely he would have had a good coat either – that is, not such a one as I should call good."
"Yes, he would; I'd have made him one," responded Prudence, with a spark of anger. "This whole basket's full of coats now."
"I know you're wonderful clever with your needle," said the girl, glancing carelessly at the basket that weighed down her step-mother's shoulders. "I can't think how you can sew so steadily, year in, year out; I never could."
"Well, I've had to get stronger spectacles," Prudence confessed. "And they wouldn't take my old ones in exchange, neither, though they were perfectly good."
"They're robbers, all of them, at that shop," commented Beppa, agreeingly.
"Now, about your clothes, Bepper – when are you going to begin? I suppose you'll come home for a while, so as to have time to do 'em; I can help you some, and Nounce too; Nounce can sew a little."
"No, I don't think I'll come home; 'twouldn't pay me. About the clothes – I'm going to buy 'em."
"They won't be half so good," Prudence began. Then she stopped. "I'm very glad you've got the money laid up, my dear," she said, commendingly.
"Oh, but I haven't," answered Beppa, laughing. "I want to borrow it of you; that is what I came up for to-day – to tell you about it."
Prudence, her heart still softened, looked at the handsome girl with gentle eyes. "Why, of course I'll lend it to you, Bepper," she said. "How much do you want?"
"All you've got won't be any too much, I reckon," answered Beppa, with pride. "I shall have to have things nice, you know; I don't want to shame 'em."
"I've got twenty-five francs," said Prudence; "I mean I've got that amount saved and put away; 'twas for – for a purpose – something I was going to do; but 'tain't important; you can have it and welcome." Her old face, as she said this, looked almost young again. "You see, I'm so glad to have you happy," she went on. "And I can't help thinking – if your father had only lived – the first wedding in his family! However, I'll come – just as though I was your real mother, dear; you sha'n't miss that. I've got my Sunday gown, and five francs will buy me a pair of new shoes; I can earn 'em before the day comes, I guess."
"I'm afraid you can't," said Beppa, laughing.
"Why, when's the wedding? Not for two or three weeks, I suppose?"
"It's day after to-morrow," answered Beppa. "Everything's bought, and all I want is the money to pay for 'em; I knew I could get it of you."
"Dear me! how quick! And these shoes are really too bad; they're clear wore out, and all the cleaning in the world won't make 'em decent."
"Well, Denza, why do you want to come? You don't know any of Giuseppe's family. To tell the truth, I never supposed you'd care about coming, and the table's all planned out for (at Giuseppe's sister's), and there ain't no place for you."
"And you didn't have one saved?"
"I never thought you'd care to come. You see they're different, they're all well off, and you don't like people who are well off – who wear nice clothes. You never wanted us to have nice clothes, and you like to go barefoot."
"No, I don't!" said Prudence.
"'Tany rate, one would think you did; you always go so in summer. But even if you had new shoes, none of your clothes would be good enough; that bonnet, now – "
"My bonnet? Surely my bonnet's good?" said the New England woman; her voice faltered, she was struck on a tender point.
"Well, people laugh at it," answered Beppa, composedly.
They had now reached the house. "You go in," said Prudence; "I'll come presently."
She went round to the wood-shed, unstrapped her basket, and set it down; then she climbed up on the barrel, removed the hay, and took out her work-box. Emptying its contents into her handkerchief, she descended, and, standing there, counted the sum – twenty-seven francs, thirty centimes. "'Twon't be any too much; she don't want to shame 'em." She made a package of the money with a piece of brown paper, and, entering the kitchen, she slipped it unobserved into Beppa's hand.
"Seems to me," announced Granmar from the bed, "that when a girl comes to tell her own precious Granmar of her wedding, she ought in decency to be offered a bite of something to eat. Any one but Denza would think so. Not that it's anything to me."
"Very well, what will you have?" asked Prudence, wearily. Freed from her bonnet and shawl, it could be seen that her once strong figure was much bent; her fingers had grown knotted, enlarged at the joints, and clumsy; years of toil had not aged her so much as these recent nights – such long nights! – of cruel rheumatic pain.
Granmar, in a loud voice, immediately named a succulent dish; Prudence began to prepare it. Before it was ready, Jo Vanny came in.
"You knew I was up here, and you've come mousing up for an invitation," said Beppa, in high good-humor. "I was going to stop and invite you on my way back, Giovanni; there's a nice place saved for you at the supper."
"Yes, I knew you were up here, and I've brought you a wedding-present," answered the boy. "I've brought one for mamma, too." And he produced two silk handkerchiefs, one of bright colors, the other of darker hue.
"Is the widow going to be married, too?" said Beppa. "Who under heaven's the man?"
In spite of the jesting, Prudence's face showed that she was pleased; she passed her toil-worn hand over the handkerchief softly, almost as though its silk were the cheek of a little child. The improvised feast was turned into a festival now, and of her own accord she added a second dish; the party, Granmar at the head, devoured unknown quantities. When at last there was nothing left, Beppa, carrying her money, departed.
"You know, Jo Vanny, you hadn't ought to leave your work so often," said Prudence, following the boy into the garden when he took leave; she spoke in an expostulating tone.
"Oh, I've got money," said Jo Vanny, loftily; "I needn't crawl." And carelessly he showed her a gold piece.
But this sudden opulence only alarmed the step-mother. "Why, where did you get that?" she said, anxiously.
"How frightened you look! Your doubts offend me," pursued Jo Vanny, still with his grand air. "Haven't I capacities? – hasn't Heaven sent me a swarming genius? Wasn't I the acclaimed, even to laurel crowns, of my entire class?"
This was true: Jo Vanny was the only one of Tonio's children who had profited by the new public schools.
"And now what shall I get for you, mamma?" the boy went on, his tone changing to coaxing; "I want to get you something real nice; what will you have? A new dress to go to Beppa's wedding in?"
For an instant Prudence's eyes were suffused. "I ain't going, Jo Vanny; they don't want me."
"They shall want you!" declared Jo Vanny, fiercely.
"I didn't mean that; I don't want to go anyhow; I've got too much rheumatism. You don't know," she went on, drawn out of herself for a moment by the need of sympathy – "you don't know how it does grip me at night sometimes, Jo Vanny! No; you go to the supper, and tell me all about it afterwards; I like to hear you tell about things just as well as to go myself."
Jo Vanny passed his hand through his curly locks with an air of desperation. "There it is again – my gift of relating, of narrative; it follows me wherever I go. What will become of me with such talents? I shall never die in my bed; nor have my old age in peace."
"You go 'long!" said Prudence (or its Italian equivalent). She gave him a push, laughing.
Jo Vanny drew down his cap, put his hands deep in his pockets, and thus close-reefed scudded down the hill in the freezing wind to the shelter of the streets below.
By seven o'clock Nounce and Granmar were both asleep; it was the most comfortable condition in such weather. Prudence adjusted her lamp, put on her strong spectacles, and sat down to sew. The great brick stove gave out no warmth; it was not intended to heat the room; its three yards of length and one yard of breadth had apparently been constructed for the purpose of holding and heating one iron pot. The scaldino at her feet did not keep her warm; she put on her Highland shawl. After a while, as her head (scantily covered with thin white hair) felt the cold also, she went to get her bonnet. As she took it from the box she remembered Beppa's speech, and the pang came back; in her own mind that bonnet had been the one link that still united her with her old Ledham respectability, the one possession that distinguished her from all these "papish" peasants, with their bare heads and frowzy hair. It was not new, of course, as it had come with her from home. But what signified an old-fashioned shape in a community where there were no shapes of any kind, new or old? At least it was always a bonnet. She put it on, even now from habit pulling out the strings carefully, and pinning the loops on each side of her chin. Then she went back and sat down to her work again.