She laid aside the twisted cloth on which the conca had rested while she carried it, and she smoothed her hair carelessly.

“There are beans,” said Nanna, giving the girl one of the bowls.  “There is the bread.  While they are cooling take the other portion upstairs.”

The girl looked at the bowl, and at Nanna, and then at Paoluccio, and stood stock still.

“Hey, there!” the man cried, with a rough laugh.  “Hey!  Reginella!  Are you going to sleep, or are you turning into a statue?”

“Am I to give him the beans to eat?” asked Regina, looking hard at the innkeeper.

“You said he was hungry.  That is what there is for dinner.  We give him what we have.”

Regina’s dark eyes lightened; her upper lip rose in a curve and showed her closed teeth, strong and white as those of a young animal.

“Do as you are told,” added Paoluccio.  “This is charity.  When you examine your conscience at Easter you can say, ’I have fed the hungry and cared for the sick.’  The beans are mine, of course, but that makes no difference.  I make you a present of them.”

“Thank you!”

“Welcome,” answered Paoluccio, with his mouth, full.

Regina took the fourth bowl and a piece of bread and went out.  The steps to the upper part of the house were on the outside, as is common in the houses of the Campagna.

“How old is she?” Paoluccio asked when she was gone.

“She must be twenty,” answered Nanna.  “It must be ten years since her mother died, and her mother said she was ten years old.  She has eaten many loaves in this house.”

“She has worked for her food,” said the innkeeper.  “And she is an honest girl.”

“What did you expect?  That I should let her be idle, or make eyes at the carters?  But you always defend her, because she is pretty, you ugly scamp!”

Nanna uttered her taunt in a good-natured tone, but she glanced furtively at her husband to see the effect of her words, for it was not always safe to joke with Paoluccio.

“If I did not defend her,” he answered, “you would beat the life out of her.”

“I daresay,” replied Nanna, and filled her mouth with beans.

“But now,” said Paoluccio, swallowing, “if you are not careful she will break all your bones.  She has the health of a horse.”

So the couple discussed matters amiably, while Regina was out of the way.

In a garret that had a small unglazed window looking to the north, the girl was bending over a wretched trestle-bed, which was literally the only piece of furniture in the room; and on the coarse mattress, stuffed with the husks and leaves of maize, lay all that the fever had left of Marcello Consalvi, shivering under a tattered brown blanket.  There was little more than the shadow of the boy, and his blue eyes stared dully up at the girl’s face.  But there was life in him still, thanks to her, and though there was no expression in his gaze, his lips smiled faintly, and faint words came from them.