ping poor people to earn
more wages and to live better--giving them a possibility of happiness,
instead of taking the little they have in order to give ourselves the
appearance of greatness. That is why I say that in Italy we have too
much progress and too little improvement."

"Yes--how well you put it!" Gianluca looked at her with quick
admiration.

"Do I? It is because you understand easily. Should you call me
patriotic? I think I am. I am an Italian before anything else, before
being a Serra, a woman, a member of society--anything! I feel as though
I should like to give my heart for my people and my life for our
country, if it would do any good. Of course, if it really came to making
any great sacrifice, I suppose my courage would shrivel up and I should
behave just like any one else."

"No--you would not," said Gianluca, gravely. "There have been women--the
great Countess, and Saint Catherine of Siena--"

"Yes!" Veronica laughed. "And there were also my good ancestors, who
tore Italy to pieces, joined hands with German Emperors, upset Popes,
seized everything they could lay hands upon, and turned the country into
a sort of perpetual gladiator's show. That is a proud and promising
inheritance for an aspiring patriot, is it not? The less you and I talk
of patriotism, the better--seeing what our people have done in history
to make patriotism necessary in our time."

"Perhaps so. Doing is better than talking, and you have begun by doing
good and trying to make people happy. You have succeeded in one case,
already."

She looked at him with a glance of inquiry.

"What case?" she asked.

"I mean myself--of course. You have made me perfectly happy to-day."

"I am glad," she answered. "I wish you to be always happy."

She spoke thoughtfully, gravely, and gently, and then turned from him a
little, and looked through the iron railing of the balcony, down at the
deep distance of the valley. She was wondering, and justly, whether
during the past hour she had not made a mistake, very cruel to him, in
breaking down all at once the barrier of excessive formality which
hitherto had stood between them when they met. Words rose to her lips,
which with the utmost gentleness should quickly undeceive him, if he had
been deceived; but when she looked at him and saw his happy, appealing
eyes and his transparent face, her courage was not ready. Perhaps he was
dying, as she had been told. She turned again and watched the misty