“You would not even have a footman,” observed Don Teodoro.

“No—­not I!” she laughed, still standing in the carriage.  “How are the horses doing, Giovanni?” she asked of the coachman.  “Are they strong enough for the work?”

“They are good horses, Excellency,” the man answered.  “They need work.”

“And how is Sultana?” inquired the young girl, who had not seen the mare for several days.

“The mare is well, Excellency.”

Veronica made Don Teodoro sit beside her, and Elettra installed herself opposite them, with her mistress’s bags and other things.  The luggage was piled on a cart which was to follow, and they drove away.

“I sent the carriage down yesterday,” observed Don Teodoro.  “I came by the coach this morning.”

“Is it so far?” asked Veronica, whose ideas about the position of her property were still uncertain, for it had never struck Elettra that her mistress did not know how far it was from Eboli to Muro.

“It is over thirty miles,” answered the priest, with a smile.  “We are beyond civilization in Muro—­we are in the province of Basilicata.  But there are little towns on the way, and you must stop to rest the horses and to eat something.  It will be almost dark when you get home.”

“Home!” repeated Veronica, thoughtfully.

A confused vision rose in her mind, of an imaginary room, looking down from a height upon a town below—­a room in which she would live altogether, with her books and her favourite objects and the companionship of her favourite ideas and plans, all of which were to be realized and executed in the course of time.  She fancied herself gazing down from the wide window upon what was almost all hers, upon the dwellings of people who lived upon her land, who pastured her flocks and drove her cattle, living, moving, and having being as integral animate parts of her great inheritance; children of men and women whose fathers’ fathers had laboured in old days that she might have and enjoy the fruits of so much toil, who had given much and from whom had often been taken even that which they had not been bound fairly to give; who had received nothing in return for generations of blood and bone worn out, dried up, and consumed to dust in the service of the great house of Serra.  They had a right to her, as she had a right to the lands on which they lived.  There was much talk of rights, Veronica thought, nowadays, and those who had none were privileged to speak the loudest and to be heard first.  But those who, having right on their side, were blinded and smitten dumb by the enormous despotism of their self-styled betters—­by the glare and noise of blatant power in possession—­they were the ones who really had rights, and if she could give any of them a single hundredth part of what was their due, she should be glad that she had lived.  Wealth, she thought, should not be an accumulation, but a distribution, of goods.  Charity should no longer mean alms, nor should poverty be pauperism.  In the young, whole-hearted simplicity of her desire to do good, it seemed likely that she might soon be a specimen of the strangest of all modern anomalies—­the princely socialist.  It was certainly in her power to try almost any experiment which suggested itself, and on a scale which might ultimately prove something to herself and others.