She had spoken English, but Annunziata’s next outcry was like a response.

“Oh, to live, to live—­I want to live, to live Oh, let me live!”

But at other times her wandering thoughts took quite a different turn.

Gazing solemnly up into Maria Dolores’ face, she said, “He does not even know her name, though he fears it may be Smitti.  I thought it was Maria Dolores, but he fears it may be Smitti.”

John looked out of the window, pretending not to hear, and praying, I expect, that Maria Dolores’ eyes might be blinded and her counsel darkened.  At the same time, (Heaven having sent me a laughing hero), I won’t vouch that his shoulders didn’t shake a little.

II

Apropos of their ignorance of each other’s patronymics. ...  One afternoon Maria Dolores was taking the air at the open door of the presbytery, when, to a mighty clattering of horses’ hoofs, a big high-swung barouche came sweeping into the court-yard, described a bold half-circle, and abruptly drew up before her.  In the barouche sat a big old lady, a big soft, humorous-eyed old lady, in cool crepe-de-chine, cream-coloured, with beautiful white hair, a very gay light straw bonnet, and a much befurbelowed lavender-hued sunshade.  Coachman and footman, bolt upright, stared straight before them, as rigid as if their liveries were of papier-mache.  The horses, with a full sense of what they owed to appearances, fierily champed their bits, tossed their manes, and pawed the paving-stones.  The old lady smiled upon Maria Dolores with a look of great friendliness and interest, softly bowed, and wished her, in a fine, warm, old high-bred voice, “Good afternoon.”

Maria Dolores (feeling an instant liking, as well as curiosity and admiration) smiled in her turn, and responded, “Good afternoon.”

“You enjoy a fine view from here,” the old lady remarked, ducking her sunshade in the direction of the valley.

“A beautiful view,” agreed Maria Dolores, following the sunshade with her eyes.

Those of the stranger had a gleam.  “But don’t you think, if the unvarnished truth may be whispered, that it’s becoming the merest trifle too hot?” she suggested.

Maria Dolores lightly laughed.  “I think it is decidedly too hot,” she said.

“I’m glad to find we’re of the same opinion,” declared the old lady, fanning herself.  “You can positively see the heat vibrating there in the distance.  We children of the North should fly such weather.  For my part, I’m off to-morrow for England, where I can shiver through the summer comfortably in my chimney-corner.”

Maria Dolores laughed out again.

“So I’ve driven over from Roccadoro,” the newcomer continued, “to have a farewell look at a young man of my acquaintance who’s staying here.  I dare say you may know him.  He has blue eyes and a red beard, a flattering manner and a pretty wit, and his name is Blanchemain.”