instance. Thus they put it.
All girls--and what else was Vanna, a wife in name?--walked there arm in
arm. Others walked there also, she must know. By-and-by some pretty lad,
an archer, perhaps, from the palace, some roistering blade of a
gentleman's lackey, a friar or twinkling monk out for a frolic, came
along with an "Eh, la bellina!" and then there was another arm at work.
So, for one, whispered La Testolina, dipping a head full of confidence
and mystery close to Vanna's as the girl sat working out the summer
twilight. The Via Stella was narrow and gloomy. The tall houses nearly
met in that close way. Looking up you saw the two jagged edges of the
eaves, like great tattered wings spread towards each other. When the
green sky of evening deepened to blue, and blue grew violet, these
shadowing wings were always in advance, more densely dark. There it was
that Vanna worked incessantly, sewing seam after seam, patching,
braiding, and fitting the pieces. By no chance at all did a hint of the
sun fall about her; yet she always sang softly to herself, always wore
her pretty fresh colours, and still showed the gold sheen in her yellow
hair. Her hair was put up now, pulled smoothly back over her temples;
she spoke in a low, sober, measured voice, and to La Testolina's sly
suggestions responded with a little blush, a little shake of the head,
and a very little sigh. "Ser Baldassare is good to me," she would say;
"would you have me do him a wrong? Last Friday he gave me a silver piece
to spend in whatsoever I chose. I bought a little holy-water stoup with
a Gesulino upon it, bowered in roses. On Sunday morning he patted my
cheek and called me a good girl. To say nothing of the many times he has
pinched my ear, all this was very kind, as you must see. With what do
you ask me to reward him? Fie!" La Testolina snorted, and shrugged
herself away. Vanna went on with her sewing and her little song----

"Giovanottin, che te ne vai di fuora,
Stattene allegro, e cosi vo' far io.

Se ti trovassi qualche dama nuova,
L'ha da saper che tua dama son io."

So sang she, innocently enough, whose sweethearting went no farther than
her artless lips. There was not a spice of mischief in the girl. What
she had told La Testolina had been no more than the truth: Master
Baldassare was good to her--better than you would have believed possible
in such a crabbed old stub of a man. He was more of a father to her than
ever Don Urb