Old Elsie had been enjoined to unite with her grandchild in this scheme of a pilgrimage, and received the direction with as much internal contumacy as would a thriving church-member of Wall Street a proposition to attend a protracted meeting in the height of the business season.  Not but that pilgrimages were holy and gracious works,—­she was too good a Christian not to admit that,—­but why must holy and gracious works be thrust on her in particular?  There were saints enough who liked such things; and people could get to heaven without,—­if not with a very abundant entrance, still in a modest way,—­and Elsie’s ambition for position and treasure in the spiritual world was of a very moderate cast.

“Well, now, I hope you are satisfied,” she said to Agnes, as she pulled her along with no very gentle hand; “you’ve got me sent off on a pilgrimage,—­and my old bones must be rattling up and down all the hills between here and Rome,—­and who’s to see to the oranges?—­they’ll all be stolen, every one.”

“Grandmother,” began Agnes in a pleading voice—­

“Oh, you hush up!  I know what you’re going to say:  ’The good Lord will take care of them.’  I wish He may!  He has His hands full, with all the people that go cawing and psalm-singing like so many crows, and leave all their affairs to Him!”

Agnes walked along disconsolate, with her eyes full of tears, which coursed one another down her pale cheeks.

“There’s Antonio,” pursued Elsie, “would perhaps look after things a little.  He is a good fellow, and only yesterday was asking if he couldn’t do something for us.  It’s you he does it for,—­but little you care who loves you, or what they do for you!”

At this moment they met old Jocunda, whom we have before introduced to the reader as portress of the Convent.  She had on her arm a large square basket, which she was storing for its practical uses.

“Well, well, Saint Agnes be praised, I have found you at last,” she said.  “I was wanting to speak about some of your blood-oranges for conserving.  An order has come down from our dear gracious lady, the Queen, to prepare a lot for her own blessed eating, and you may be sure I would get none of anybody but you.—­But what’s this, my little heart, my little lamb?—­crying?—­tears in those sweet eyes?  What’s the matter now?”

“Matter enough for me!” said Elsie.  “It’s a weary world we live in.  A body can’t turn any way and not meet with trouble.  If a body brings up a girl one way, why, every fellow is after her, and one has no peace; and if a body brings her up another way, she gets her head in the clouds, and there’s no good of her in this world.  Now look at that girl,—­doesn’t everybody say it’s time she were married?—­but no marrying for her!  Nothing will do but we must off to Rome on a pilgrimage,—­and what’s the good of that, I want to know?  If it’s praying that’s to be done, the dear saints know she’s at it from morning till night,—­and lately she’s up and down three or four times a night with some prayer or other.”