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