Adamo added many more grave remarks between the puffs of his pipe, turning to Pipa, who sat beside him, distaff in hand, the silver pins, stuck into her glossy plaits, glistening in the sun.

When Adamo ceased he nodded his head like an oracle that had spoken, and dozed, leaning against the wall, until the sun had sunk to rest into a bed of orange and saffron, and the air was cooled by evening dews.  Not till then did Adamo rise up to work.

Pipa, who, next to Adamo and the marchesa, loved Enrica with all the strength of her warm heart, sings all day those unwritten songs of Tuscany that rise and fall with such spontaneous cadence among the vineyards, and in the olive-grounds, that they seem bred in the air—­Pipa sings all day for gladness that the signorina is going to marry a rich and handsome gentleman.  Marriage, to Pipa’s simple mind—­especially marriage with money—­must bring certain blessings, and crowds of children; she would as soon doubt the seven wounds of the Madonna as doubt this.  Pipa has seen Count Nobili.  She approves of him.  His curly auburn hair, so short and crisp; his bold look and gracious smile—­not to speak of certain notes he slipped into her hand—­have quite conquered her.  Besides, had Count Nobili not come down, the noble gentleman, like San Michele, with golden wings behind him, and a terrible lance in his hand, as set forth in a dingy fresco in the church at Corellia—­come down and rescued the dear signorina when—­oh, horrible!—­she had been forgotten in the burning tower?  Pipa’s joy develops itself in a vain endeavor to clean the entire villa.  With characteristic discernment, she has begun her labors in the upper story, which, being unfurnished, no one ever enters.  Pipa has set open all the windows, and thrown back all the blinds; Pipa sweeps and sprinkles, and sweeps again, combating with dust, and fleas and insects innumerable, grown bold by a quiet tenancy of nearly fifty years.  While she sweeps, Pipa sings: 

  “I’ll build a house round, round, quite round,
  For us to live at ease, all three;
  Father and mother there shall dwell,
  And my true love with me.”

Poor Pipa!  It is so pleasant to hear her clear voice caroling overhead like a bird from the open window, and to see her bright face looking out now and then, her gold ear-rings bobbing to and fro—­her black rippling hair, and her merry eyes blinded with dust and flue—­to swallow a breath of air.  Adamo does not work, but Pipa does.  If she goes on like this, Pipa may hope to clean the entire floor in a month; of the great sala below, and the other rooms where people live, Pipa does not think.  It is not her way to think; she lives by happy, rosy instinct.

Pipa chatters much to Enrica about Count Nobili and her marriage when she is not sweeping or spinning.  Enrica continually catches sight of her staring at her with open mouth and curious eyes, her head a little on one side the better to observe her.