Marzio looked anxiously at her, as though he expected to see her fall to the ground a second time.  It went against the grain of his nature to take Gianbattista back, although he had discharged him hastily in the anger of the moment.  He turned away and glanced at the bench.  There were the young man’s tools, the hammer as he had left it, the piece of work on the leathern pad.  The old impulse of foresight for the future acted in Marzio’s mind.  He could never find such another workman.  In the uncertainty of the moment, as often happens, details rose to his remembrance and produced their effect.  He recollected the particular way in which Gianbattista used to hold the blunt chisel in first tracing over the drawing on a silver plate.  He had never seen any one do it in the same way.

“Well, Lucia—­don’t faint away.  If you can make him stay, I will take him back.  But I am afraid you will have hard work.  He will make difficulties.  He threw the money in my face, Lucia—­in your father’s face, girl!  Think of that.  Well, well, do what you like.  He is a good workman.  Go away, child, and leave me to myself.  What will you say to him?”

Lucia threw her arms round her father’s neck and kissed him in her sudden joy.  Then she stood a moment in thought.

“Give me his money,” she said.  “If he will take the money he will come back.”

Marzio hesitated, slowly drew out his purse, and began to take out the notes.

“Well—­if you will have it so,” he grumbled.  “After all, as he threw it away, I do not see that he has much right to it.  There it is.  If he says anything about that ten-franc note being torn, tell him he tore it himself.  Go home, Lucia, and manage things as you can.”

Lucia put the money in her glove, and busied herself for a moment in brushing the dust from her clothes.  Mechanically, her father helped her.

“You are quite sure you did not hurt yourself?” he asked.  The whole occurrence seemed indistinct, as though some one had told something which he had not understood—­as we sometimes listen to a person reading aloud, and, missing by inattention the verb of the sentence, remain confused, and ask ourselves what the words mean.

“No—­not at all.  It is nothing,” answered Lucia, and in a moment she was at the door.

Opening it to go out, she saw the tall figure of Don Paolo at the other end of the passage coming rapidly towards her.  She raised her finger to her lips and nodded, as though to explain that everything was settled, and that the priest should not speak to Marzio.  She, of course, did not know that he had been talking with Gianbattista and her mother, nor that he knew anything about the apprentice’s dismissal.  She only feared fresh trouble, now that the prospect looked so much clearer, in case Don Paolo should again attack her father upon the subject of the marriage.  But her uncle came forward and made as though he would enter the workshop.