the grated casement of the church, and said to herself that it was a dove. She was not a superstitious woman, but still, if such things once had been, why not again?
'She is a love child?' said the sacristan, as he gave her back to Joconda's arms, weighted henceforward with the name of the Syrian Magdalene. 'A child of crime,' said Joconda; for she had not the indulgence to the sins of Saturnino Mastarna that the Maremma had. She was a northern woman.
When the old priest died a dozen years later on, Joconda did not tell his successor of the child's parentage.
'They are good as good can be, the holy men,' she said to herself, 'and of course they never tell anything out of confessional—no—but still, when their housekeeper gets gossiping over a nice bit of fried liver, or their cappellano comes in with some new wine, they are but human, and they may mix up a little that they hear in the street with what they hear in the chapel. Why not? A man must talk, even when he is a holy one; that stands to reason.'
So she, who did not feel the necessity to talk, kept her own counsel.
