Each and all were writing letters that would be received with rapture almost incredulous, for no one but Sophia could have had any preparation.

“It is pleasant to think of poor Alda’s delight,” said Geraldine, over her writing-case.  “After all her troubles, to have her utmost ambition fulfilled at last; and yet-—and yet it does seem turning that pretty creature over to a life of temptation.”

“In good hands,” said Clement.  “The youth himself is a nice honest fellow, a mere boy as yet; but it is something to have no harm in him at two-and-twenty and in the Guards; and his parents are evidently ready to watch over and guide them.”

“If her head does not get turned,” sighed Geraldine.

“Just as likely in any other station,” replied Clement.  “The protection must come from within, not from the externals; and I do think that she—-yes, and he too—-have that Guard within them.”

“I think the sooner we are away from this place the better,” said Geraldine.  “There are such things as cold shoulders, and perhaps displeasure is in human nature, though it is not our fault.”

“Which is the worse for us,” laughed her brother, “since we can’t beg pardon.”

The cold shoulder was manifested by a note of apology the next morning from Mr. White.  He was too busy to go with Mr. Underwood to Santa Carmela on this day, but had sent the young quarry-man to act as guide, and his foreman as interpreter.  So Clement had his long ride on mule-back mostly in silence, though this he scarcely lamented, for he could better enjoy the mountain peaks and the valleys bright with rich grass, with anemones of all colours, hyacinths, strange primulas and gentians, without having to make talk to Mr. White.  But his journey was without result.  He did find an exceedingly old woman keeping sheep and spinning wool with a distaff, who owned to the name of Cecca Benista.  She once had a brother.  Yes, Gian was his name, but he went away, as they all did.  He had a voice bellissima, si bellissima; and some one told her long, long ago, that he had made his fortune, and formed a company, but he had never come home—-no, no, and was probably dead, though she had never heard; and he had sent nothing—-no, no!

Then Clement tried the priest of the curious little church on the hill-side, a memory of Elijah and the convents on Mount Carmel.  The Parrocco was a courteous man, quite a peasant, and too young to know much about the past generation.  He gave Clement a refection of white bread, goats’ milk cheese, and coffee, and held up his hands on the declining of his thin wine.  There was a kind of register of baptisms, and Giovanni Batista Benista was hunted out, and it was found that if alive he would be over seventy years old.  But no more was known, and there was no proof that he was dead twenty-two years before!