“Yes, truly!” she said, showing her white teeth in a pleased smile as I made the admiring remark she expected.  “Avellino has long had a name for its apples—­but, thanks to the Holy Mother, I think in the season there is no fruit in all the neighborhood finer than mine.  The produce of it brings me almost enough to live upon—­that and the house, when I can find signori willing to dwell with me.  But few strangers come hither; sometimes an artist, sometimes a poet—­such as these are soon tired of gayety, and are glad to rest.  To common persons I would not open my door—­not for pride, ah, no! but when one has a girl, one cannot be too careful.”

“You have a daughter, then?”

Her fierce eyes softened.

“One—­my Lilla.  I call her my blessing, and too good for me.  Often I fancy that it is because she tends them that the trees bear so well, and the apples are so sound and sweet!  And when she drives the load of fruit to market, and sits so smilingly behind the team, it seems to me that her very face brings luck to the sale.”

I smiled at the mother’s enthusiasm, and sighed.  I had no fair faiths left—­I could not even believe in Lilla.  My landlady, Signora Monti as she was called, saw that I looked fatigued, and left me to myself—­and during my stay I saw very little of her, Vincenzo constituting himself my majordomo, or rather becoming for my sake a sort of amiable slave, always looking to the smallest details of my comfort, and studying my wishes with an anxious solicitude that touched while it gratified me.  I had been fully three days in my retreat before he ventured to enter upon any conversation with me, for he had observed that I always sought to be alone, that I took long, solitary rambles through the woods and, across the hills—­and, not daring to break through my taciturnity, he had contented himself by merely attending to my material comforts in silence.  One afternoon, however, after clearing away the remains of my light luncheon, he lingered in the room.

“The eccellenza has not yet seen Lilla Monti?” he asked, hesitatingly.

I looked at him in some surprise.  There was a blush on his olive-tinted cheeks and an unusual sparkle in his eyes.  For the first time I realized that this valet of mine was a handsome young fellow.

“Seen Lilla Monti!” I repeated, half absently; “oh, you mean the child of the landlady?  No, I have not seen her.  Why do you ask?”

Vincenzo smiled.  “Pardon, eccellenza! but she is beautiful, and there is a saying in my province:  Be the heart heavy as stone, the sight of a fair face will lighten it!”

I gave an impatient gesture.  “All folly, Vincenzo!  Beauty is the curse of the world.  Read history, and you shall find the greatest conquerors and sages ruined and disgraced by its snares.”

He nodded gravely.  He probably thought of the announcement I had made at the banquet of my own approaching marriage, and strove to reconcile it with the apparent inconsistency of my present observation.  But he was too discreet to utter his mind aloud—­he merely said: