“There!  I was wrong—­forgive me.  You are honest; you have served your country well enough to know the value of fidelity and duty.  But when you say I have not lost my youth, you are wrong, Vincenzo!  I have lost it—­it has been killed within me by a great sorrow.  The strength, the suppleness of limb, the brightness of eye these are mere outward things:  but in the heart and soul are the chill and drear bitterness of deserted age.  Nay, do not smile; I am in truth very old—­so old that I tire of my length of days; yet again, not too old to appreciate your affection, amico, and”—­here I forced a faint smile—­“when I see the maiden Lilla, I will tell you frankly what I think of her.”

Vincenzo stooped his head, caught my hand within his own, and kissed it, then left the room abruptly, to hide the tears that my words had brought to his eyes.  He was sorry for me, I could see, and I judged him rightly when I thought that the very mystery surrounding me increased his attachment.  On the whole, I was glad he had seen me undisguised, as it was a relief to me to be without my smoked glasses for a time, and during all the rest of my stay at Avellino I never wore them once.

One day I saw Lilla.  I had strolled up to a quaint church situated on a rugged hill and surrounded by fine old chestnut-trees, where there was a picture of the Scourging of Christ, said to have been the work of Fra Angelico.  The little sanctuary was quite deserted when I entered it, and I paused on the threshold, touched by the simplicity of the place and soothed by the intense silence.  I walked on my tiptoe up to the corner where hung the picture I had come to see, and as I did so a girl passed me with a light step, carrying a basket of fragrant winter narcissi and maiden-hair fern.  Something in her graceful, noiseless movements caused me to look after her; but she had turned her back to me and was kneeling at the shrine consecrated to the Virgin, having placed her flowers on the lowest step of the altar.  She was dressed in peasant costume—­a simple, short blue skirt and scarlet bodice, relieved by the white kerchief that was knotted about her shoulders; and round her small well-shaped head the rich chestnut hair was coiled in thick shining braids.

I felt that I must see her face, and for that reason went back to the church door and waited till she should pass out.  Very soon she came toward me, with the same light timid step that I had often before noticed, and her fair young features were turned fully upon me.  What was there in those clear candid eyes that made me involuntarily bow my head in a reverential salutation as she passed?  I know not.  It was not beauty—­for though the child was lovely I had seen lovelier; it was something inexplicable and rare—­something of a maidenly composure and sweet dignity that I had never beheld on any woman’s face before.  Her cheeks flushed softly as she modestly returned my salute, and when she was once outside the church door she paused, her small white fingers still clasping the carven brown beads of her rosary.  She hesitated a moment, and then spoke shyly yet brightly: