Beppi’s small mind returned to the subject at hand.

“Then if it isn’t that, what is it you want me to do?” he inquired, and continued without giving his sister time to reply.  “It’s to take care of them, I suppose,” he grumbled, pointing a browned berry-stained little finger at a herd of goats that were grazing contentedly a little farther down the slope.

“Yes, that’s it, and good care of them too,” Lucia replied.  “You are not to go to sleep again, remember, and be sure and watch Garibaldi, or she will stray away and get lost.”

“And a good riddance too,” Beppi commented under his breath.

He did not share in the general admiration for the “Illustrious and Gentile Senora Garibaldi,” the favorite goat of his sister’s herd.  Perhaps the vivid recollection of Garibaldi’s hard head may have accounted for his aversion.  Lucia heard his remark and was quick to defend her pet.

“Aren’t you ashamed to speak so?” she exclaimed, “I’ve a good mind not to give you the candy after all.”

“Oh, Lucia, please, please!” Beppi begged.  “I will take such good care of them, I promise, and if you like, I will pick the tenderest grass for old crosspatch,” he added grudgingly.

Lucia smiled in triumph, and from the pocket of her dress she pulled out a small pink paper bag.

“Here you are then,” she said; “and I won’t be away very long.  I am just going to see Maria for a few minutes.”

Beppi caught the bag as she tossed it, and lingered over the opening of it.  He wanted to prolong his pleasure as long as possible.  Candy in war times was a treat and one that the Rudinis seldom indulged in.

As if to echo his thoughts, Lucia called back over her shoulder as she walked away, “Don’t eat them fast, for they are the last you will get for a long time.”

Beppi did not bother to reply, but he acted on the advice, and selected a big lemon drop that looked hard and everlasting, and set about sucking it contentedly.

Lucia walked quickly over the grass to a small white-washed cottage a little distance away.  She approached it from the side and peeked through one of the tiny windows.  Old Nana Rudini, her grandmother, was sitting in a low chair beside the table in the low-ceilinged room.  Her head nodded drowsily, and the white lace that she was making lay neglected in her lap.  Lucia smiled to herself in satisfaction and stole gently away from the window.

The Rudinis lived about a mile beyond the north gate of Cellino, an old Italian town built on the summit of a hill.  Cellino was not sufficiently important to appear in the guide books, but it boasted of two possessions above its neighbors,—­a beautiful old church opposite the market place, and a broad stone wall that dated back to the days of Roman supremacy.  It was still in perfect preservation, and completely surrounded the town giving it the appearance of a mediaeval fortress, rather than a twentieth century village.  Two roads led to it, one from the south through the Porto Romano, and one from the north, up-hill and from the valley below.  It was up the latter that Lucia walked.  She was in a hurry and she swung along with a firm, graceful step, her head, crowned by its heavy dark hair, held high and her shoulders straight.