the thought of
her marriage from me as a sorrowful thing."

"I understand your feeling," I said. "Still, suppose your daughter
wedded a man who would be to you as a son, and who would not part her
from you?--for instance, let us say Vincenzo?"

Signora Monti smiled through her tears.

"Vincenzo! He is a good lad, a very good lad, and I love him; but he
does not think of Lilla--he is devoted to the eccellenza."

"I am aware of his devotion," I answered. "Still I believe you will
find out soon that he loves your Lilla. At present he says nothing--he
fears to offend you and alarm her; but his eyes speak--so do hers. You
are a good woman, a good mother; watch them both, you will soon tell
whether love is between them or no. And see," here I handed her a
sealed envelope, "in this you will find notes to the amount of four
thousand francs." She uttered a little cry of amazement. "It is Lilla's
dowry, whoever she marries, though I think she will marry Vincenzo.
Nay--no thanks, money is of no value to me; and this is the one
pleasure I have had for many weary months. Think well of Vincenzo--he
is an excellent fellow. And all I ask of you is, that you keep this
little dowry a secret till the day of your fair child's espousals."

Before I could prevent her the enthusiastic woman had seized my hand
and kissed it. Then she lifted her head with the proud free-born
dignity of a Roman matron; her broad bosom heaved, and her strong voice
quivered with suppressed emotion.

"I thank you, signor," she said, simply, "for Lilla's sake! Not that my
little one needs more than her mother's hands have toiled for, thanks
be to the blessed saints who have had us both in their keeping! But
this is a special blessing of God sent through your hands, and I should
be unworthy of all prosperity were I not grateful. Eccellenza, pardon
me, but my eyes are quick to see that you have suffered sorrow. Good
actions lighten grief! We will pray for your happiness, Lilla and I,
till the last breath leaves our lips. Believe it--the name of our
benefactor shall be lifted to the saints night and morning, and who
knows but good may come of it!"

I smiled faintly.

"Good will come of it, my excellent signora, though I am all unworthy
of your prayers. Rather pray," and I sighed heavily, "for the dead,
'that they may be loosed from their sins.'"

The good woman looked at me with a sort of kindly pity mingled with
awe, then murmuring once more her thanks and