The girl’s expression changed.  She had quite persuaded herself that a great moral change had taken place in her father that morning, and had built many hopes upon it.  To her sanguine imagination it seemed as though his whole nature must have changed.  She had seen visions of him as she had always wished he might be, and the visions had seemed likely to be realised.  She had doubted whether she should tell any one the story of what she regarded as Marzio’s conversion, but she had made an exception in favour of Gianbattista.  Gianbattista simply laughed, and explained the matter away in half a dozen words.  Lucia was more deeply disappointed than any one, listening to her light talk, could have believed possible.  Her face expressed the pain she felt, and she protested against the apprentice’s explanation.

“It is too bad of you, Tista,” she said in hurt tones.  “But I do not think you are right.  You have no idea how quietly he knelt, and his hands were folded on the bench.  He bent his head once, and I believe he kissed the feet—­I wish you could have seen it, you would not doubt me.  You think I have invented a silly tale, I am sure you do.”

The tears filled her eyes as she turned away and stared vacantly out of the window at the dark houses opposite.  The sun, which had been shining until that moment, disappeared behind a mass of driving clouds, and a few drops of rain began to beat against the panes of glass.  The world seemed suddenly more dreary to Lucia.  Gianbattista, who was sensitive where she was concerned, looked at her, and understood that he had destroyed something in which she had wished to believe.

“Well, well, my heart, perhaps you are right,” he said softly, putting his arm round her.

“No, you do not believe it,” she answered.

“For you, I will believe in anything, in everything—­even in Sor Marzio’s devotions,” he said, pressing her to his side.  “Only—­you see, darling, he was talking in such a way a few moments before—­that it seemed impossible—­”

“Nothing is quite impossible,” replied Lucia.  “The heart beats fast.  There may be a whole world between one beat and the next.”

“Yes, my love,” assented Gianbattista, looking tenderly into her eyes.  “But do you think that between all the beatings of our two hearts there could ever be a world of change?”

“Ah—­that is different, Tista.  Why should we change?  We could only change for worse if we began to love each other less, and that is impossible.  But papa!  Why should he not change for the better?  Who can tell you, Tista, dear, that in a moment, in a second, after you were gone, he was not sorry for all he had done?  It may have been in an instant.  Why not?”

“Things done so very quickly are not done well,” answered the young man.  “I know that from my art.  You may stamp a thing in a moment with the die—­it is rough, unfinished.  It takes weeks to chisel it—­”