Virginia was rather cool.  “Who knows?” she said, shrugging, “she is like all Sienese women.  She is fatter than I am.  I allow her shape.  But she is not near so tall.  She is a little thing.  She wears her clothes well.  And she is merry enough when she has her tongue.”  I could afford to smile at this grudging admiration.  “My dear girl,” I said, “you little know her—­but how should you?  Tell me more.  Did you speak to her?” She nodded her head and told her story.  “I waited my time.  I was washing the canon’s linen in the little cloister.  That was my job, week in and week out.  She came through.  She was scolding her old woman.  I followed her round the cloister, and when the coast was clear, said, ‘Hist, Madonna.’  She turned and looked at me with her eyes wide open.  They are handsome eyes for a Sienese woman.  That I allow.  She said, ‘Do you call me?’ Says I, ‘I do.’  She says, ‘Well?’ I reply, ‘He is well if you are.’  ’Who, then?’ says she.  I say, ‘Your lover.’  This makes her jump like a flea on the bed.  But she brazens it out finely, turning to her old crone with a ‘What does the girl mean?’ Bless you, they knew well enough.  I folded my arms—­so; I said, ’He has walked the stony hills barefoot to find you.  He will be out of his skin, standing on his head, to know you are here.’  She stamped her foot and flew into a passion.  ‘How dare you?’ she cries out.  ‘Tell me of whom you are talking this rubbish.’  I nodded my head many times—­so—­and said, ‘You are lucky to have him so fast.’  She went away.  After that she never passed me without tossing her head; and presently I ran away.”  I was greatly perturbed by this tale of hers, and not unreasonably angry.  I said, “Unhappy girl! you little know the harm you have done.  Have I instructed you so badly in myself that you can think to serve me by your servant-girl mysteries and your nods and winks?  I enjoin you to leave my affairs absolutely alone.  You are to tell me no more, speak of me no more, see Donna Aurelia no more.  Since you have left the convent and are in danger of punishment, you must, of course, stay here.  You must be properly clothed and looked after.  I will see to that.  Now recover yourself, and remember what I have said.”  I was almost immediately sorry for my plain speaking; she was in extreme misery, I could see.  Tears streamed through her fingers, her body was convulsed with grief.  More than once she seemed upon the point of lashing out at me with some furious blast of indignation; but she always checked it, as it seemed, when it was at the edge of her lips.  Unthinking fool that I was!  I little knew or guessed what she had endured at the convent for my sake; how, treated as a sinful woman, she had been the object of hard judgment and undeserved reproach—­preached at, prayed over, lectured, scolded, made a slave of; how she had loved me and believed in me through all; and how, unable to bear her lot, coming to me at last, I had proved the most cruel of her oppressors—­and