But Gianluca had written on the morning of her departure, and before Veronica had half finished what she was doing, one of her women brought her his letter, for the post came in at about midday.  It came alone, for Bianca had not written yet, and Veronica’s correspondence was not large.  She had not even thought of ordering a newspaper to be sent to her.  Her work and occupation were to be in Muro, and she cared very little about what might happen anywhere else.  She broke the seal and read the letter eagerly.

It was like most of his letters at first, being full of matters about which he had talked with her, and written in the graceful way which was especially his and which had so much charm for her.  But towards the end his courage must have failed him a little, for there were sad words and one or two phrases that had in them something touching and tender to which she was not accustomed.  He did not tell her that he was ill and that he feared lest he might never see her again, for he was far too careful as yet of hinting at the truth she would not understand.  They were very little things that told her of his sadness—­an unfinished sentence ending in a dash, the fall of half a dozen harmonious words that were like a beautiful verse and vaguely reminded her of Leopardi’s poetry—­small touches here and there which had either never slipped from his pen before, or which she had never noticed.

They pleased her.  She would not have been a human woman if she had not been a little glad to be missed for herself, even though the writing was to continue.  She read the last part of the letter over three times, the rest only twice, and then she laid it in an empty drawer of her table, rather tenderly, to be the first of many.  That should be Gianluca’s especial place.

Amidst her first arrangements for her own comfort, she did not forget what she looked upon as her chief work, and before that day was over she had begun what was to be a systematic improvement of Muro.  Direct and practical, with a sense beyond her years, she did not hesitate.  The first step was to clean the little town and pave the streets.  The next to visit and examine the dwellings.

“The place shall be clean,” said Veronica to the steward, who stood before her table, receiving her orders.

“But, Excellency, how can it be clean when there are pigs everywhere?” inquired the man, astonished at her audacity.

“There shall be no more pigs in Muro,” answered the young princess.  “The people shall choose as many trustworthy old men and boys as are necessary to look after the creatures.  They shall be kept at night in some barn or old building a mile or two from here, and they shall be fed there, or pastured there.  I will pay what it costs.”

“Excellency, it is impossible!  There will be a revolution!” The steward held up his hands in amazement.