The house, ancient and spacious, with its high-pitched roof of ruddy tiles, impressed Nerina with a sense of awe, almost of terror.  She remained hesitating on the garden path, where white and red stocks were blossoming.

“Mother,” said Adone, “here is a hungry child.  Give her, in your kindness, some broth and bread.”

Clelia Alba came out into the entrance, and saw the little girl with some displeasure.  She was kind and charitable, but she did not love beggars and vagabonds, and this half-naked female tatterdemalion offended her sense of decency and probity, and her pride of sex.  She was herself a stately and handsome woman.

“The child is famished,” said Adone, seeing his mother’s displeasure.

“She shall eat then, but let her eat outside,” said Clelia Alba, and went back into the kitchen.

Nerina waited by the threshold, timid and mute and humble, like a lost dog; her eyes alone expressed overwhelming emotions:  fear and hope and one ungovernable appetite, hunger.

Clelia Alba came out in a few minutes with a bowl of hot broth made of herbs, and a large piece of maize-flour bread.

“Take them,” she said to her son.

Adone took them from her, and gave them to the child.

“Sit and eat here,” he said, pointing to a stone settle by the wall under the rose of four seasons.

The hands of Nerina trembled with excitement, her eyes looked on fire, her lips shook, her breath came feverishly and fast.  The smell of the soup made her feel beside herself.  She said nothing, but seized the food and began to drink the good herb-broth with thirsty eagerness though the steam of it scorched her.

Adone, with an instinct of compassion and delicacy, left her unwatched and went within.

“Where did you find that scarecrow?” asked his mother.

“Down by the river.  She has nobody and nothing.  She comes from the mountains.”

“There are poor folks enough in Ruscino without adding to them from without,” said Clelia Alba impatiently.  “Mind she does not rob the fowl-house before she slips sway.”

“She has honest eyes,” said Adone.  “I am sure she will do us no harm.”

When he thought that she had been given time enough to finish her food he went out; the child was stretched at full length on the stone seat, and was already sound asleep, lying on her back; the empty bowl was on the ground, of the bread there was no longer a crumb; she was sleeping peacefully, profoundly, her thin hands crossed on her naked brown bosom, on which some rose leaves had fallen from the rose on the wall above.

He looked at her in silence for a little while, then returned to his mother.

“She is tired.  She sleeps.  Let her rest.”

“It is unsafe.”

“How unsafe, mother?  She is only a child.”

“She may have men behind her.”

“It is not likely.”