Nanina’s eyes filled with tears.  She drew the mantilla closer than ever round her face, as she tried to thank the priest.  Father Rocco nodded to her kindly, and laid his hand lightly on her head for a moment, then turned round again to his cast.

“Don’t forget my message to the lady who is to sit to me to-morrow,” said Luca to Nanina, as she passed him on her way out of the studio.

After she had gone, Fabio returned to the priest, who was still busy over his cast.

“I hope you will get on better with the bust to-morrow,” said Father Rocco, politely; “I am sure you cannot complain of your model.”

“Complain of her!” cried the young man, warmly; “she has the most beautiful head I ever saw.  If I were twenty times the sculptor that I am, I should despair of being able to do her justice.”

He walked into the inner room to look at his bust again—­lingered before it for a little while—­and then turned to retrace his steps to the larger studio.  Between him and the doorway stood three chairs.  As he went by them, he absently touched the backs of the first two, and passed the third; but just as he was entering the larger room, stopped, as if struck by a sudden recollection, returned hastily, and touched the third chair.  Raising his eyes, as he approached the large studio again after doing this, he met the eyes of the priest fixed on him in unconcealed astonishment.

“Signor Fabio!” exclaimed Father Rocco, with a sarcastic smile, “who would ever have imagined that you were superstitious?”

“My nurse was,” returned the young man, reddening, and laughing rather uneasily.  “She taught me some bad habits that I have not got over yet.”  With those words he nodded and hastily went out.

“Superstitious,” said Father Rocco softly to himself.  He smiled again, reflected for a moment, and then, going to the window, looked into the street.  The way to the left led to Fabio’s palace, and the way to the right to the Campo Santo, in the neighborhood of which Nanina lived.  The priest was just in time to see the young sculptor take the way to the right.

After another half-hour had elapsed, the two workmen quitted the studio to go to dinner, and Luca and his brother were left alone.

“We may return now,” said Father Rocco, “to that conversation which was suspended between us earlier in the day.”

“I have nothing more to say,” rejoined Luca, sulkily.

“Then you can listen to me, brother, with the greater attention,” pursued the priest.  “I objected to the coarseness of your tone in talking of our young pupil and your daughter; I object still more strongly to your insinuation that my desire to see them married (provided always that they are sincerely attached to each other) springs from a mercenary motive.”

“You are trying to snare me, Rocco, in a mesh of fine phrases; but I am not to be caught.  I know what my own motive is for hoping that Maddalena may get an offer of marriage from this wealthy young gentleman—­she will have his money, and we shall all profit by it.  That is coarse and mercenary, if you please; but it is the true reason why I want to see Maddalena married to Fabio.  You want to see it, too—­and for what reason, I should like to know, if not for mine?”