nade slowly, slowly, gazing into
the glass.

"Does that suit you?" her cousin asked, having waited in vain for an
answer.

"Yes, it is very good," the drowsy voice replied. "I drink it slowly on
account of my teeth."

* * * * *

The last whisperings were not human. Luisa and Franco were seated on the
grass at Looch, near the cemetery. They were speaking of the mother's
great and exquisite goodness, and comparing it to Uncle Piero's great
and simple goodness, noting the similarity and the differences. They did
not say which sort of goodness, taken as a whole, seemed to them
superior, but from the opinions each expressed, their different
inclinations could be divined. Franco preferred that goodness which is
permeated with faith in the supernatural, while Luisa preferred the
other form of goodness. He was grieved by this secret contradiction, but
hesitated to reveal it, fearing to sound a too painful note. But it had
brought a cloud to his brow, and presently he said, almost
involuntarily: "How many misfortunes, how much bitterness your mother
suffered, with such great resignation, such strength, such peace! Do you
believe that natural goodness alone would be able to suffer thus?" "I
do not know," Luisa replied. "I think poor Mamma must have lived in a
better world before she was born into this, for her heart was always
there." She did not say all she thought. She thought that if all the
good souls on earth resembled her mother in religious meekness, this
world would become the kingdom of the rascal and the tyrant. And as to
ills, which do not come from man, but from the very conditions of human
life itself, she felt greater admiration for such as strive against them
with their own strength, than for such as invoke and obtain aid from
that same Being by whom the blow was dealt. She would not confess these
sentiments to her husband, but instead, expressed the hope that her
uncle might never suffer deep affliction. Could it be possible that the
Lord would wish such a man to suffer? "No, no, no!" Franco exclaimed; at
another moment he would not perhaps have dared to admonish God in this
manner. A breath of the _Boglia_ swept down the ravine of Muzai, and
rustled the top branches of the walnut-trees. To Luisa that fluttering
seemed connected with Franco's last words; it seemed to her that the
wind and the great trees knew something of the future, and were
whispering about it together.