d 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:

"If the eccellenza will walk yet a little further up the hill he will
see a finer view of the mountains."

Something familiar in her look--a sort of reflection of her mother's
likeness--made me sure of her identity. I smiled.

"Ah! you are Lilla Monti?"

She blushed again.

"Si, signor. I am Lilla."

I let my eyes dwell on her searchingly and almost sadly. Vincenzo was
right: the girl was beautiful, not with the forced hot-house beauty of
the social world and its artificial constraint, but with the loveliness
and fresh radiance which nature gives to those of her cherished ones
who dwell with her in peace. I had seen many exquisite women--women of
Juno-like form and face--women whose eyes were basilisks to draw and
compel the souls of men--but I had never seen any so spiritually fair
as this little peasant maiden, who stood fearlessly yet modestly
regarding me with the innocent inquiry of a child who suddenly sees
something new, to which it is unaccustomed. She was a little fluttered
by my earnest gaze, and with a pretty courtesy turned to descend the
hill. I said gently:

"You are going home, fauciulla mia?"

The kind protecting tone in which I spoke reassured her. She answered
readily:

"Si signor. My mother waits for me to help her with the eccellenza's
dinner."

I advanced and took the little hand that held the rosary.

"What!" I exclaimed, playfully, "do you