Shyly she threw a furtive glance over to the other end of the boat, where the young boatman sat, rowing fast.  His woollen cap was pulled deep down over his eyes; he was gazing far across the water, with averted head, sunk, as it appeared, in his own meditations.

The priest observed her look, and bent his ear down closer.

“You did not know my father?” she whispered, while a dark look gathered in her eyes.

“Your father, child!  Why, your father died when you were ten years old.  What can your father (Heaven rest his soul in paradise!) have to do with this present perversity of yours?”

“You did not know him, padre; you did not know that mother’s illness was caused by him alone.”

“And how?”

“By his ill-treatment of her; he beat her and trampled upon her.  I well remember the nights when he came home in his fits of frenzy.  She never said a word, and did everything he bade her.  Yet he would beat her so, my heart felt ready to break.  I used to cover up my head and pretend to be asleep, but I cried all night.  And then, when he saw her lying on the floor, quite suddenly he would change, and lift her up and kiss her, till she screamed and said he smothered her.  Mother forbade me ever to say a word of this; but it wore her out.  And in all these long years since father died, she has never been able to get well again.  And if she should soon die—­which God forbid!—­I know who it was that killed her.”

The little curato’s head wagged slowly to and fro; he seemed uncertain how far to acquiesce in the young girl’s reasons.  At length he said:  “Forgive him, as your mother has forgiven!  And turn your thoughts from such distressing pictures, Laurella; there may be better days in store for you, which will make you forget the past.”

“Never shall I forget that!” she said, and shuddered.  “And you must know, padre, it is the reason why I have resolved to remain unmarried.  I never will be subject to a man, who may beat and then caress me.  Were a man now to want to beat or kiss me, I could defend myself; but mother could not—­neither from his blows nor kisses—­ because she loved him.  Now, I will never so love a man as to be made ill and wretched by him.”

“You are but a child, and you talk like one who knows nothing at all of life.  Are all men like that poor father of yours?  Do all ill-treat their wives, and give vent to every whim and gust of passion?  Have you never seen a good man yet? or known good wives, who live in peace and harmony with their husbands?”

“But nobody ever knew how father was to mother; she would have died sooner than complain or tell of him, and all because she loved him.  If this be love—­if love can close our lips when they should cry out for help—­if it is to make us suffer without resistance, worse than even our worst enemy could make us suffer—­then, I say, I never will be fond of mortal man.”

“I tell you you are childish; you know not what you are saying.  When your time comes, you are not likely to be consulted whether you choose to fall in love or not.”  After a pause, he added, “And that painter:  did you think he could have been cruel?”