She could hoe and reap and sow:  she could row and steer the boat amongst the shallows as well as any man; she could milk the cow, and put the steers in the waggon; she could card hemp and flax, and weave and spin either; she could carry heavy weights balanced on her head; she was strong and healthy and never ill, and with it all she was happy.  Her large bright eyes were full of contentment, and her rosy mouth often smiled out of the mere gladness of living.  Her senses were still asleep and her young soul wanted nothing more than life gave her.

“You can earn your bread anywhere now, little one,” said Clelia Alba to her one day, when she had been there three years.

The girl shrank as under a blow; her brown and rosy face grew colourless.  “Do you wish me to go away?” she said humbly.

“No, no,” said Clelia, although that was what she did desire.  “No, not while I live.  But should I die, you could not stay here with my son.”

“Why?” said Nerina.  She did not understand why.

Clelia hesitated.

“You ought to feel that yourself,” she said harshly.  “Young men and young maids do not dwell together, unless”

“Unless what?” asked Nerina.

“You are a simpleton indeed, or you are shamming,” thought Adone’s mother; but aloud she only said, “It is not in our usage.”

“But you will not die,” said Nerina anxiously.  “Why should you think of dying, madonna?  You are certainly old, but you are not so very, very old.”

Clelia smiled.

“You do not flatter, child.  So much the better.  Run away and drive in those fowls.  They are making havoc in the beanfield.”

She could not feel otherwise than tenderly towards this young creature, always so obedient, so tractable, so contented, so grateful; but she would willingly have placed her elsewhere could she have done so with a clear conscience.

“My son will never do ill by any creature under his roof,” she thought.  “But still youth is youth; and the girl grows.”

“We must dower her and mate her; eh, your reverence?” she said to Don Silverio when he passed by later in that day.

“Willingly,” he answered.  “But to whom?  To the owls or the cats at Ruscino?”

In himself he thought, “She is as straight and as slight as a chestnut wand, but she is as strong.  When you shall try to bend her where she shall not want to go you will not succeed.”

For he knew the character of Nerina in the confessional better than Clelia Alba judged of it in her house.

“It was not wise to bring her here,” he added aloud.  “But having committed that error it would be unfair to charge the child with the painful payment of it.  You are a just woman, my good friend; you must see that.”

Clelia saw it clearly, for she never tried to trick her conscience.

“Your reverence mistakes me,” she answered.  “I would not give her to any but a good man and a good home.”