e hollowed out of the city wall. Within the
shrine an image of the Holy Mother of the Seven Sorrows stands, her
arms outstretched, her bosom pierced by seven gilded arrows. The
shrine is protected by an iron grating. Bunches of pale hill-side
blossoms, ferns, and a few blades of corn, are thrust in between the
bars. Some lie at the Virgin's feet--offerings from those who have
nothing else to give. A little group (but these are old, and bowed by
grief and want) kneel beside the shrine in the quiet evening-tide.

The rumble of a carriage, so strange a sound in lonely Corellia,
rouses all. From year to year, no wheels pass through the town save
the marchesa's. Ere she appears, all know who it must be. The kneelers
at the shrine start up and hobble forward to stare and wonder at that
strange world whence she comes, so far away at Lucca. The maidens
courtesy and smile; the lads jump up, and range themselves
respectfully against the wall; yet in their hearts neither care for
her--neither the maidens nor the lads--no one cares for the marchesa.
They are all looking out for Enrica. Why does the signorina lie back
in the carriage a mass of clothes? The maidens would like to see how
those clothes are made, to cut their poor garments something like
them. The lads would like to let their eyes rest on her golden hair.
Why does the Signorina Enrica not nod and smile to those she knows, as
is her wont? Has that old tyrant, her aunt--these young ones are bold,
and dare to whisper what others think; they have no care, and, like
the lilies of the field, live in the wild, free air--has that old
tyrant, her aunt, bewitched her?

Now the carriage has emerged from the dark alley, and entered the
dirty but somewhat less dark piazza--the market-place of Corellia. The
old Lombard church of Santa Barbara, with its big bells in the arched
tower, hanging plainly to be seen, opens into the piazza by a flight
of steps and a sculptured doorway. The Municipio, too, calling itself
a _palace_ (heaven save the mark!), with its list of births, deaths,
and marriages, posted on a black-board outside the door, to be seen of
all, adorns it. The Cafe of the Tricolor, and such shops as Corellia
boasts of, are there opposite. Men, smoking, and drinking native wine,
are lounging about. Ser Giacomo, the notary, spectacles on nose, sits
at a table in a corner, reading aloud to a select audience a weekly
broad-sheet published at Lucca, news of men and things not of