eight safely to S. Mamette in the covered boat.
The snow was still falling placidly in big flakes. The church was
already quite full, and even the ladies were obliged to stand, behind
the first row of benches. Ester volunteered to look after Maria, and
lifted her to a seat on top of the bench in front of them, while the
sacristan was busy lighting the candles on the high-altar. Cia was
tormenting the Professor, whom she believed to be a pious man, with a
thousand questions concerning the difference between the Roman and
Ambrosian rites, and Maria was keeping Ester busy with still more
puzzling questions.

"Who are they lighting those candles for?"

"For our Lord."

"Is our Lord going to bed now?"

"No, hush!"

"And has the _bambino Gesu_--the child Jesus--gone to bed already?"

"Yes, yes," Ester replied thoughtlessly, to put an end to these
questions.

"With the mule?"

Once Uncle Piero had brought Maria an ugly, little wooden mule which she
detested, and when she was obstinate and capricious her mother would put
her to bed with the mule under her pillow, under her obstinate little
head.

"Be quiet, chatterbox!" said Ester.

"I don't go to bed with the mule. I say _excuse me_!"

"Hush! Listen to the organ."

All the candles were now lighted, and the organist having mounted to his
post, was teasing his old instrument as if to waken it, drawing from it
what seemed to be angry grunts. When, on the ringing of a bell, the
organ poured forth all its great voice, and the altar-boys and the
priest appeared, Luisa stole her hand into her husband's, as if they had
still been lovers.

Those two hands pressing each other furtively were speaking of a fast
approaching event, of a serious resolve which must be kept a secret,
and which was not yet formed irrevocably. The little nervous hand said:
"Have courage!" The manly hand said: "I will!" They must indeed make up
their minds to it. Franco must go away, leave his wife, his child, and
the old man, perhaps for some months, perhaps for some years. He must
leave Valsolda, the dear little house, his flowers, perhaps for ever. He
must emigrate to Piedmont, seek for work and gain, in the hope of being
able to call his family to him in case that other great national hope
should not be realised. He was glad his wife had chosen this solemn
place and hour in which to encourage him in his sacrifice, and he did
not drop the gentle hand, but held it as a lover might, never looki