“If the eccellenza will walk yet a little further up the hill he will see a finer view of the mountains.”

Something familiar in her look—­a sort of reflection of her mother’s likeness—­made me sure of her identity.  I smiled.

“Ah! you are Lilla Monti?”

She blushed again.

“Si, signor.  I am Lilla.”

I let my eyes dwell on her searchingly and almost sadly.  Vincenzo was right:  the girl was beautiful, not with the forced hot-house beauty of the social world and its artificial constraint, but with the loveliness and fresh radiance which nature gives to those of her cherished ones who dwell with her in peace.  I had seen many exquisite women—­women of Juno-like form and face—­women whose eyes were basilisks to draw and compel the souls of men—­but I had never seen any so spiritually fair as this little peasant maiden, who stood fearlessly yet modestly regarding me with the innocent inquiry of a child who suddenly sees something new, to which it is unaccustomed.  She was a little fluttered by my earnest gaze, and with a pretty courtesy turned to descend the hill.  I said gently: 

“You are going home, fauciulla mia?”

The kind protecting tone in which I spoke reassured her.  She answered readily: 

“Si signor.  My mother waits for me to help her with the eccellenza’s dinner.”

I advanced and took the little hand that held the rosary.

“What!” I exclaimed, playfully, “do you still work hard, little Lilla, even when the apple season is over?”

She laughed musically.

“Oh!  I love work.  It is good for the temper.  People are so cross when their hands are idle.  And many are ill for the same reason.  Yes, truly!” and she nodded her head with grave importance, “it is often so.  Old Pietro, the cobbler, took to his bed when he had no shoes to mend—­yes; he sent for the priest and said he would die, not for want of money—­oh no! he has plenty, he is quite rich—­but because he had nothing to do.  So my mother and I found some shoes with holes, and took them to him; he sat up in bed to mend them, and now he is as well as ever!  And we are careful to give him something always.”

She laughed again, and again looked grave.

“Yes, yes!” she said, with a wise shake of her little glossy head, “one cannot live without work.  My mother says that good women are never tired, it is only wicked persons who are lazy.  And that reminds me I must make haste to return and prepare the eccellenza’s coffee.”

“Do you make my coffee, little one?” I asked, “and does not Vincenzo help you?”

The faintest suspicion of a blush tinged her pretty cheeks.

“Oh, he is very good, Vincenzo,” she said, demurely, with downcast eyes; “he is what we call buon’ amico, yes, indeed!  But he is often glad when I make coffee for him also; he likes it so much!  He says I do it so well!  But perhaps the eccellenza will prefer Vincenzo?”