orry. He wants you to rub away the red."

The little fellow snatched a soft silk scarf from the basket, and held
it towards Monna Brigida, that she might use it as her guardian angel
desired. Her anger and mortification were fast giving way to spiritual
alarm. Monna Berta and that cloud of witnesses, highly-dressed society
in general, were not looking at her, and she was surrounded by young
monitors, whose white robes, and wreaths, and red crosses, and dreadful
candour, had something awful in their unusualness. Her Franciscan
confessor, Fra Cristoforo, of Santa Croce, was not at hand to reinforce
her distrust of Dominican teaching, and she was helplessly possessed and
shaken by a vague sense that a supreme warning was come to her.
Unvisited by the least suggestion of any other course that was open to
her, she took the scarf that was held out, and rubbed her cheeks, with
trembling submissiveness.

"It is well, madonna," said the second youth. "It is a holy beginning.
And when you have taken those vanities from your head, the dew of
heavenly grace will descend on it." The infusion of mischief was
getting stronger, and putting his hand to one of the jewelled pins that
fastened her braids to the berretta, he drew it out. The heavy black
plait fell down over Monna Brigida's face, and dragged the rest of the
head-gear forward. It was a new reason for not hesitating: she put up
her hands hastily, undid the other fastenings, and flung down into the
basket of doom her beloved crimson-velvet berretta, with all its
unsurpassed embroidery of seed-pearls, and stood an unrouged woman, with
grey hair pushed backward from a face where certain deep lines of age
had triumphed over _embonpoint_.

But the berretta was not allowed to lie in the basket. With impish zeal
the youngsters lifted it, and held it up pitilessly, with the false hair
dangling.

"See, venerable mother," said the taller youth, "what ugly lies you have
delivered yourself from! And now you look like the blessed Saint Anna,
the mother of the Holy Virgin."

Thoughts of going into a convent forthwith, and never showing herself in
the world again, were rushing through Monna Brigida's mind. There was
nothing possible for her but to take care of her soul.

Of course, there were spectators laughing: she had no need to look round
to assure herself of that. Well! it would, perhaps, be better to be
forced to think more of Paradise. But at the thought that the de