still work hard, little Lilla,
even when the apple season is over?"

She laughed musically.

"Oh! I love work. It is good for the temper. People are so cross when
their hands are idle. And many are ill for the same reason. Yes,
truly!" and she nodded her head with grave importance, "it is often so.
Old Pietro, the cobbler, took to his bed when he had no shoes to
mend--yes; he sent for the priest and said he would die, not for want
of money--oh no! he has plenty, he is quite rich--but because he had
nothing to do. So my mother and I found some shoes with holes, and took
them to him; he sat up in bed to mend them, and now he is as well as
ever! And we are careful to give him something always."

She laughed again, and again looked grave.

"Yes, yes!" she said, with a wise shake of her little glossy head, "one
cannot live without work. My mother says that good women are never
tired, it is only wicked persons who are lazy. And that reminds me I
must make haste to return and prepare the eccellenza's coffee."

"Do you make my coffee, little one?" I asked, "and does not Vincenzo
help you?"

The faintest suspicion of a blush tinged her pretty cheeks.

"Oh, he is very good, Vincenzo," she said, demurely, with downcast
eyes; "he is what we call buon' amico, yes, indeed! But he is often
glad when I make coffee for him also; he likes it so much! He says I do
it so well! But perhaps the eccellenza will prefer Vincenzo?"

I laughed. She was so naive, so absorbed in her little duties--such a
child altogether.

"Nay, Lilla, I am proud to think you make anything for me. I shall
enjoy it more now that I know what kind hands have been at work. But
you must not spoil Vincenzo--you will turn his head if you make his
coffee too often."

She looked surprised. She did not understand. Evidently to her mind
Vincenzo was nothing but a good-natured young fellow, whose palate
could be pleased by her culinary skill; she treated him, I dare say,
exactly as she would have treated one of her own sex. She seemed to
think over my words, as one who considers a conundrum, then she
apparently gave it up as hopeless, and shook her head lightly as though
dismissing the subject.

"Will the eccellenza visit the Punto d'Angelo?" she said brightly, as
she turned to go.

I had never heard of this place, and asked her to what she alluded.

"It is not far from here," she explained, "it is the view I spoke of
before. Just a little further up the hill