Lucia had returned, and for several days had behaved in an unusual and peculiar manner.  She neglected her work, was brusque with her master, and wept without apparent motive.  One evening she went out, saying that she intended going to the parish church to say her prayers.  At nine o’clock Don Rocco, as she had not returned, went philosophically to bed, and never knew at what time she came into the house.  On the contrary, he congratulated himself the next day on the happy change that had taken place in her, owing to her religious exercises, because she seemed no longer as she had been, but was quiet, attentive, active, spoke with satisfaction of the approaching departure, the position which Don Rocco hoped to find for her with a certain arch-priest, a friend of his; a promotion for her.  She seemed to be possessed of an entirely novel ascetic zeal.  As soon as Don Rocco retired for the night, she would go to church to spend there hour after hour.

And now, Don Rocco had taken his last supper in the monastic refectory, was reading his breviary for the last time in the little church of St. Luke, as rustic, simple, and religious as he, from its pavement to the black beams of its roof.  His heart was heavy, poor priest, thus to leave his nest without honor; to carry humiliation and bitterness to his father and his sister, whose only hope and pride he was!  He had every reason to frown as he looked at his breviary.

When he had finished reading, he took his seat on a bench.  It was painful to him to take leave of his church.  It was his last evening!  He stood there with fixed eyes, his eyelids moving regularly, discouraged, cast down, like a stricken beast awaiting the axe.  He had passed some hours of the afternoon among his vines, those planted three years before, which had already given him their first fruit.  The large cypresses, the splendid view of the plain and of the other hillsides, inspired him with not a single dream; his peasant’s heart grew tender toward the beautiful vines, the fertile furrows.  Though blushing and ashamed of it, he had taken a sprig of a vine and an ear of corn to carry away as mementos.  This was his poetry.  Of the church he could carry away nothing.  But he left there his heart, a little everywhere; on the altar that had witnessed his first exposition of the Gospel, on the ancient altar front that inspired him with devotion as he said Mass, on the beautiful Madonna, whose mantle had been modestly raised around her neck by his care, on the tomb of a bishop to whom, two centuries before, the peace of St. Luke had seemed preferable to worldly splendors.  Who could tell whether he would ever have again a church so his own—­ entirely his own?  He could not seem to rise, he felt an inner sense of dissolution, of which he had never dreamed.  His eyelids kept on winking as if bidding away importunate tears.  In fact, he did not weep, but his little eyes shone more than usual.

At half-past nine Lucia entered the church through the choir to look after her master.  “I am coming at once, at once, go back,” said Don Rocco.