“Well, well,” said Jocunda, “who started this idea?”

“Oh, Father Francesco and she got it up between them,—­and nothing will do but I must go, too.”

“Well, now, after all, my dear,” said Jocunda, “do you know, I made a pilgrimage once, and it isn’t so bad.  One gets a good deal by it, first and last.  Everybody drops something into your hand as you go, and one gets treated as if one were somebody a little above the common; and then in Rome one has a princess or a duchess or some noble lady who washes one’s feet, and gives one a good supper, and perhaps a new suit of clothes, and all that,—­and ten to one there comes a pretty little sum of money to boot, if one plays one’s cards well.  A pilgrimage isn’t bad, after all;—­one sees a world of fine things, and something new every day.”

“But who is to look after our garden and dress our trees?”

“Ah, now, there’s Antonio, and old Meta his mother,” said Jocunda, with a knowing wink at Agnes.  “I fancy there are friends there that would lend a hand to keep things together against the little one comes borne.  If one is going to be married, a pilgrimage brings good luck in the family.  All the saints take it kindly that one comes so far to see them, and are more ready to do a good turn for one when one needs it.  The blessed saints are like other folks,—­they like to be treated with proper attention.”

This view of pilgrimages from the material stand-point had more effect on the mind of Elsie than the most elaborate appeals of Father Francesco.  She began to acquiesce, though with a reluctant air.

Jocunda, seeing her words had made some impression, pursued her advantage on the spiritual ground.

“To be sure,” she added, “I don’t know how it is with you; but I know that I have, one way and another, rolled up quite an account of sins in my life.  When I was tramping up and down with my old man through the country,—­now in this castle and then in that camp, and now and then in at the sacking of a city or village, or something of the kind,—­the saints forgive us!—­it does seem as if one got into things that were not of the best sort, in such times.  It’s true, it’s been wiped out over and over by the priest; but then a pilgrimage is a good thing to make all sure, in case one’s good works should fall short of one’s sins at last.  I can tell you, a pilgrimage is a good round weight to throw into the scale; and when it comes to heaven and hell, you know, my dear, why, one cannot be too careful.”

“Well, that may be true enough,” said Elsie,—­“though, as to my sins, I have tried to keep them regularly squared up and balanced as I went along.  I have always been regular at confession, and never failed a jot or tittle in what the holy father told me.  But there may be something in what you say; one can’t be too sure; and so I’ll e’en school my old bones into taking this tramp.”