“Ah, Signor, how can I tell you?  It was to save my baby I refused.”

“Please tell.  You need not mind saying anything to me—­or to my friend.  We are interested and want to help you.”

Now the young woman’s tears were falling fast, but silently still, as if she knew that her heart-break was unimportant in the great scheme of things, and she wished to make no noise about it.  Her lips moved, but no words came.

“She will not speak against me,” Stefani said suddenly, “nor will my poor mother.  But I will tell you the story.  I meant to steal your bag, and sell the gold things and all the valuables that were in it.  It was a great temptation, for we had scarce a penny left, and there was no work anywhere.  I was tired, tired all through to my heart, Signor, that night on the Pass, and then I found the bag.  I brought it home, and charged Emilia and my mother to say nothing to anyone outside.  The children were at school, so they did not see, or they might have lisped out something, and set people talking.  The two women begged me to give up the bag, and try for a reward in case one should be offered, but I was desperate.  I said that the gold was worth more than anything that would be offered—­the gold, and some jewelry in a little box.  I knew a man who would buy of me, and I had gone out to find him yesterday, when, as if Heaven had sent a curse upon us for my sin, the bambina was struck down with this illness—­a terrible aching of her little head, and a fever.  When I came home to take away the things out of the bag, my wife begged me on her knees, for the child’s sake, to change my mind; and at last I did, for who can hold out against the prayers of those he loves?

“Quickly, lest I should repent, I carried the bag to our priest, and told him all.  He thought as a penance for the sin which had been in my heart, I should take no reward if it were offered, though he did not lay this upon me as a command.  Emilia was with him, for, said she, Our Lady will save the baby if we make this great sacrifice.  Now you know all the truth.”

“And I know that you are good people—­better than I would have been in your places—­better than anyone I know.  There’s no credit in keeping straight if one’s not tempted to go wrong, is there?  I won’t offend you by begging that you’ll take the reward.  I offer you no reward, but I am going to give your children a present, and you are to use it for the comfort of your family.  I have enough with me, because, you see, I had to get something ready to-day, in case the reward had to be paid.  Now, it isn’t needed for that, so I can use it in this other way.  And you have done all that is right, and you would hurt me very much if you refused to let me do what I wish.  It is always wrong to hurt people, you know.  And you must send me word early to-morrow morning before I go, whether the baby is better.  I feel sure, somehow, that she will be.”

Then a roll of notes was thrust into one of the little boots, still caked with mud, which the mother kept mechanically in her hand.  There was a pat on the shoulder, too, and an instant later the Boy’s arm was hooked into mine; I was whisked away with him in as rapid a flight as if he had been a thief, and not a benefactor.