“Sweet innocent! she knows nothing that is coming on her,” Pipa is thinking; and then Pipa winks, and laughs outright—­laughs to the empty walls, which echo the laugh back with a hollow sound.

But if any thing lurks there that mocks Pipa’s mirth, it is not visible to Pipa’s outward eye, so she continues addressing herself to Enrica, who is utterly bewildered by her strange ways.

Pipa cannot bear to think that Enrica never dressed for her betrothed.  “Poverina!” she says to her, “not dress—­not dress!  What degradation!  Why, when the Gobbina—­a little starved hump-backed bastard—­married the blind beggar Gianni at Corellia, for the sake of the pence he got sitting all day shaking his box by the cafe—­even the Gobbina had a white dress and a wreath—­and you, beloved lady, not so much as to care to change your clothes!  What must the Signore Conte have thought?  Misera mia!  We must all seem pagans to him!” And Pipa’s heart smote her sorely, remembering the notes.  “Caro Gesu!  When you are to be married we must find you something to wear.  To be sure, the marchesa’s luggage was chiefly burnt in the fire, but one box is left.  Out of that box something will come,” Pipa feels sure (miracles are nothing to Pipa, who believes in pilgrimages and the evil-eye); she feels sure that it will be so.  After much talk with Enrica, who only answers her with a smile, and says absently, looking at the mountains which she does not see—­

“Dear Pipa, we will look in the box, as you say.”

“But when, signorina?” insists Pipa, and she kisses Enrica’s hand, and strokes her dress.  “But when?”

“To-morrow,” says Enrica, absently.  “To-morrow, dear Pipa, not to-day.”

“Holy mother!” is Pipa’s reply, “it has been ‘to-morrow’ for four days.”  “Always to-morrow,” mutters Pipa to herself, as she makes the dust fly with her broom; “and the Signore Conte is to return in a week!  Always to-morrow.  What can I do?  Such a disgrace was never known.  No bridal dress.  No veil.  The signorina is too young to understand such things, and the marchesa is not like other ladies, or one might venture to speak to her about it.  She would only give me ‘accidenti’ if I did, and that is so unlucky!  To-morrow I must make the signorina search that box.  There will be a white dress and a veil.  I dreamed so.  Good dreams come from heaven.  I have had a candle lighted for luck before the Santissima in the market-place, and fresh flowers put into the pots.  There will be sure to be a white dress and a veil—­the saints will send them to the signorina.”

Pipa sweeps and sings.  Her children, Angelo and Gigi, are roasting chestnuts under the window outside.

This time she sings a nursery rhyme: 

  “Little Trot, that trots so gayly,
  And without legs can walk so bravely! 
  Trottolin!  Trottolino!—­
  Via! via!”