"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