the pence he got
sitting all day shaking his box by the _cafe_--even the Gobbina had
a white dress and a wreath--and you, beloved lady, not so much as to
care to change your clothes! What must the Signore Conte have thought?
Misera mia! We must all seem pagans to him!" And Pipa's heart smote
her sorely, remembering the notes. "Caro Gesu! When you are to be
married we must find you something to wear. To be sure, the marchesa's
luggage was chiefly burnt in the fire, but one box is left. Out of
that box something will come," Pipa feels sure (miracles are nothing
to Pipa, who believes in pilgrimages and the evil-eye); she feels sure
that it will be so. After much talk with Enrica, who only answers her
with a smile, and says absently, looking at the mountains which she
does not see--

"Dear Pipa, we will look in the box, as you say."

"But when, signorina?" insists Pipa, and she kisses Enrica's hand, and
strokes her dress. "But when?"

"To-morrow," says Enrica, absently. "To-morrow, dear Pipa, not
to-day."

"Holy mother!" is Pipa's reply, "it has been 'to-morrow' for four
days." "Always to-morrow," mutters Pipa to herself, as she makes the
dust fly with her broom; "and the Signore Conte is to return in a
week! Always to-morrow. What can I do? Such a disgrace was never
known. No bridal dress. No veil. The signorina is too young to
understand such things, and the marchesa is not like other ladies,
or one might venture to speak to her about it. She would only give me
'accidenti' if I did, and that is so unlucky! To-morrow I must make
the signorina search that box. There will be a white dress and a
veil. I dreamed so. Good dreams come from heaven. I have had a candle
lighted for luck before the Santissima in the market-place, and fresh
flowers put into the pots. There will be sure to be a white dress and
a veil--the saints will send them to the signorina."

Pipa sweeps and sings. Her children, Angelo and Gigi, are roasting
chestnuts under the window outside.

This time she sings a nursery rhyme:

"Little Trot, that trots so gayly,
And without legs can walk so bravely!
Trottolin! Trottolino!--
Via! via!"

Pipa, in her motherly heart looking out, blesses little Gigi--a chubby
child blackened by the sun--to see him sitting so meek and good beside
his brother. Angelo is a naughty boy. Pipa does not love him so well
as Gigi. Perhaps this is the reason Angelo is so ill-furnished in
point of clothes. His patched an