But while the soul of the child in its morning freshness, free from pressure or conscience of earthly care, rose like an illuminated mist to heaven, the words the white-haired woman repeated were twined with threads of worldly prudence,—­thoughts of how many oranges she had sold, with a rough guess at the probable amount for the day,—­and her fingers wandered from her beads a moment to see if the last coin had been swept from the stand into her capacious pocket, and her eyes wandering after them suddenly made her aware of the fact that a handsome cavalier was standing in the gate, regarding her pretty grandchild with looks of undisguised admiration.

“Let him look!” she said to herself, with a grim clasp on her rosary;—­“a fair face draws buyers, and our oranges must be turned into money; but he who does more than look has an affair with me;—­so gaze away, my master, and take it out in buying oranges!—­Ave, Maria! ora pro nobis, nunc et,” etc., etc.

A few moments, and the wave of prayer which had flowed down the quaint old shadowy street, bowing all heads as the wind bowed the scarlet tassels of neighboring clover-fields, was passed, and all the world resumed the work of earth just where they left off when the bell began.

“Good even to you, pretty maiden!” said the cavalier, approaching the stall of the orange-woman with the easy, confident air of one secure of a ready welcome, and bending down on the yet prayerful maiden the glances of a pair of piercing hazel eyes that looked out on each side of his aquiline nose with the keenness of a falcon’s.

“Good even to you, pretty one!  We shall take you for a saint, and worship you in right earnest, if you raise not those eyelashes soon.”

“Sir! my lord!” said the girl,—­a bright color flushing into her smooth brown cheeks, and her large dreamy eyes suddenly upraised with a flutter, as of a bird about to take flight.

“Agnes, bethink yourself!” said the white-haired dame;—­“the gentleman asks the price of your oranges;—­be alive, child!”

“Ah, my lord,” said the young girl, “here are a dozen fine ones.”

“Well, you shall give them me, pretty one,” said the young man, throwing a gold piece down on the stand with a careless ring.

“Here, Agnes, run to the stall of Raphael the poulterer for change,” said the adroit dame, picking up the gold.

“Nay, good mother, by your leave,” said the unabashed cavalier; “I make my change with youth and beauty thus!” And with the word he stooped down and kissed the fair forehead between the eyes.

“For shame, Sir!” said the elderly woman, raising her distaff,—­her great glittering eyes flashing beneath her silver hair like tongues of lightning from a white cloud, “Have a care!—­this child is named for blessed Saint Agnes, and is under her protection.”

“The saints must pray for us, when their beauty makes us forget ourselves,” said the young cavalier, with a smile.  “Look me in the face, little one,” he added;—­“say, wilt thou pray for me?”