had been
more than fifty years in the world without having any vision of the
Madonna, and he thought the boy might have misinterpreted the unexpected
appearance of a villager. But he had been made uneasy, and before
venturing to come down and milk his cow, he had repeated many Aves. The
pievano's conscience tormented him a little: he trembled at the
pestilence, but he also trembled at the thought of the mild-faced
Mother, conscious that that Invisible Mercy might demand something more
of him than prayers and "Hails." In this state of mind--unable to
banish the image the boy had raised of the Mother with the glory about
her tending the sick--the pievano had come down to milk his cow, and had
suddenly caught sight of Romola pausing at the parted way. Her pleading
words, with their strange refinement of tone and accent, instead of
being explanatory, had a preternatural sound for him. Yet he did not
quite believe he saw the Holy Mother: he was in a state of alarmed
hesitation. If anything miraculous were happening, he felt there was no
strong presumption that the miracle would be in his favour. He dared
not run away; he dared not advance.

"Come down," said Romola, after a pause. "Do not fear. Fear rather to
deny food to the hungry when they ask you."

A moment after, the boughs were parted, and the complete figure of a
thickset priest with a broad, harmless face, his black frock much worn
and soiled, stood, bucket in hand, looking at her timidly, and still
keeping aloof as he took the path towards the cow in silence.

Romola followed him and watched him without speaking again, as he seated
himself against the tethered cow, and, when he had nervously drawn some
milk, gave it to her in a brass cup he carried with him in the bucket.
As Romola put the cup to the lips of the eager child, and afterwards
drank some milk herself, the Padre observed her from his wooden stool
with a timidity that changed its character a little. He recognised the
Hebrew baby, he was certain that he had a substantial woman before him;
but there was still something strange and unaccountable in Romola's
presence in this spot, and the Padre had a presentiment that things were
going to change with him. Moreover, that Hebrew baby was terribly
associated with the dread of pestilence.

Nevertheless, when Romola smiled at the little one sucking its own milky
lips, and stretched out the brass cup again, saying, "Give us more, good
father," he o