a little air of instruction.

For that mother was not very clever at weaving flowers or at any other
work. Tessa's fingers had not become more adroit with the years--only
very much fatter. She got on slowly and turned her head about a good
deal, and asked Ninna's opinion with much deference; for Tessa never
ceased to be astonished at the wisdom of her children. She still wore
her contadina gown: it was only broader than the old one; and there was
the silver pin in her rough curly brown hair, and round her neck the
memorable necklace, with a red cord under it, that ended mysteriously in
her bosom. Her rounded face wore even a more perfect look of childish
content than in her younger days: everybody was so good in the world,
Tessa thought; even Monna Brigida never found fault with her now, and
did little else than sleep, which was an amiable practice in everybody,
and one that Tessa liked for herself.

Monna Brigida was asleep at this moment, in a straight-backed arm-chair,
a couple of yards off. Her hair, parting backward under her black hood,
had that soft whiteness which is not like snow or anything else, but is
simply the lovely whiteness of aged hair. Her chin had sunk on her
bosom, and her hands rested on the elbow of her chair. She had not been
weaving flowers or doing anything else: she had only been looking on as
usual, and as usual had fallen asleep.

The other two figures were seated farther off, at the wide doorway that
opened on to the loggia. Lillo sat on the ground with his back against
the angle of the door-post, and his long legs stretched out, while he
held a large book open on his knee, and occasionally made a dash with
his hand at an inquisitive fly, with an air of interest stronger than
that excited by the finely-printed copy of Petrarch which he kept open
at one place, as if he were learning something by heart.

Romola sat nearly opposite Lillo, but she was not observing him. Her
hands were crossed on her lap and her eyes were fixed absently on the
distant mountains: she was evidently unconscious of anything around her.
An eager life had left its marks upon her: the finely-moulded cheek had
sunk a little, the golden crown was less massive; but there was a
placidity in Romola's face which had never belonged to it in youth. It
is but once that we can know our worst sorrows, and Romola had known
them while life was new.

Absorbed in this way, she was not at first aware that Lillo had ceas