"What is it? Tell me," said Ragna gently.
"Oh, Signorina, I can't! I should be ashamed, you would despise me. What can a young lady like you know of—"
"Come, tell me, I shall not despise you," said Ragna; she was conscious already of an odd sense of fellowship. The girl raised her head, and looked at her steadily, as though testing the sincerity of the words.
"Signorina, my lover, Zuan, he is—he is going away, to America—he no longer wishes to marry me, and—" she drew aside the shawl, showing the altered lines of her figure.
"Oh!" said Ragna pitifully.
"And Signorina, my father turns me out of his house, he says I have brought disgrace on him, that no one will marry me now. I have nowhere to go. But that is nothing. I can work. It is Zuan—he doesn't love me any more, he is tired of me—" her voice trailed off into a wail. Ragna stroked her hand.
"Signorina, why should he cease to love me when I love him as much as ever? It must be another woman who has taken him from me! If I find her, I will kill her, I swear it! I will kill him too, and then I will kill myself!"
"But your child?" said Ragna, "have you thought of it?"
"The creatura? Poor little lamb to be wronged by its father before it is born! See you, Signorina," she turned defiantly, "it is his child, and he shall recognize it or die! No other woman shall have him!" Her eyes flashed.
Ragna tried another tack.