lifting her brown stem face all bathed in tears. "To whom should I kneel, if not to you? Day and night I prayed to S. Theresa to save them, and she never heard my words; you heard them. The saints in glory never had more fairness than your face, 'llustrissima;—they never had the pity of your heart, the charity of your hand. They let us pray on, pray on, and never speak; you heard and saved us."
The one she blessed raised her once more, with a gentle veneration for age in the action.
"You have thanked me too much, madre mia; far too much. The little any one of us can do to relieve sorrow is but such slight payment of so great a human debt. When Fanciulla is old enough to marry, tell her I will give her her silver wreath and her dower. No! no more thanks—you shame me! You, who have led so long a life of goodness, to bless me!"
She stooped lower still towards the old peasant, to drop some gold into her kerchief unperceived, and passed on, while the praises and prayers of the Capriote were poured out, with tears staining weather-beaten, age-worn cheeks that in youth had never known so sweet a rain of joy and peace.
"Ah!" murmured Erceldoune to her, "you can-
