as approaching it her eyes were directed to the opposite green
slope immediately below the church. High up, on a patch of grass
between the trees, she had descried a cow and a couple of goats, and she
tried to trace a line of path that would lead her close to that cheering
sight, when once she had done her errand to the well. Occupied in this
way, she was not aware that she was very near the well, and that some
one approaching it on the other side had fixed a pair of astonished eyes
upon her.

Romola certainly presented a sight which, at, that moment and in that
place, could hardly have been seen without some pausing and palpitation.
With her gaze fixed intently on the distant slope, the long lines of
her thick grey garment giving a gliding character to her rapid walk, her
hair rolling backward and illuminated on the left side by the sun-rays,
the little olive baby on her right arm now looking out with jet-black
eyes, she might well startle that youth of fifteen, accustomed to swing
the censer in the presence of a Madonna less fair and marvellous than
this.

"She carries a pitcher in her hand--to fetch water for the sick. It is
the Holy Mother, come to take care of the people who have the
pestilence."

It was a sight of awe: she would, perhaps, be angry with those who
fetched water for themselves only. The youth flung down his vessel in
terror, and Romola, aware now of some one near her, saw the black and
white figure fly as if for dear life towards the slope she had just been
contemplating. But remembering the parched sufferer, she half-filled
her pitcher quickly and hastened back.

Entering the house to look for a small cup, she saw salt meat and meal:
there were no signs of want in the dwelling. With nimble movement she
seated baby on the ground, and lifted a cup of water to the sufferer,
who drank eagerly and then closed her eyes and leaned her head backward,
seeming to give herself up to the sense of relief. Presently she opened
her eyes, and, looking at Romola, said languidly--

"Who are you?"

"I came over the sea," said Romola, "I only came this morning. Are all
the people dead in these houses?"

"I think they are all ill now--all that are not dead. My father and my
sister lie dead upstairs, and there is no one to bury them: and soon I
shall die."

"Not so, I hope," said Romola. "I am come to take care of you. I am
used to the pestilence; I am not afraid. But there must be some left
who ar