"They want me to pay the nine francs he has—lost," said Prudence. "Perhaps you have heard, Jo Vanny, that he has—lost nine francs that belonged to the Leoncinis? Nine whole francs." She looked at the lad, and he understood the look; for only the day before she had confided to him at last her long-cherished dream, and (as she had been sure he would) he had sympathized with it warmly.
"I declare I wish I had even a franc!" he said, searching his pockets desperately; "but I've only got a cigarette. Will you try a cigarette, uncle?" he shouted in the heap's ear.
"Don't you mock him," ordered Granmar (but Jo Vanny had been entirely in earnest). "He'll die soon, and Denza will be rid of him; that's what she wants. 'Twill be murder, of course; and he'll haunt us—he's always said he'd haunt somebody. But I ain't long for this world, so I ain't disturbed. Heaven's waiting wide open for me."
Jo Vanny looked a little frightened. He hesitated a moment, surveying the motionless Pietro; then he drew Prudence aside. "He's an awful wicked old man, and might really do it," he whispered; "'specially as you ain't a Catholic, mamma. I think you'd better give him the money if it'll stop him off; I don't mind, but it would be bad for you if he should come rapping on your windows and showing corpse-lights in the garden by-and-by."
Prudence brought her hands together sharply—a gesture of exasperation. "He ain't going to die any more than I am," she said. But she knew what life would be in that house with such a threat hanging over it, even though the execution were deferred to some vague future time. Angrily she left the room.
Jo Vanny followed her. "Come along, if you want to," she said, half impatient, half glad. She felt a sudden desire that some one besides herself should see the sacrifice, see the actual despoiling of the little box she had labored to fill. She went to the wood-shed. It was a gloomy December day, and the vegetables hanging on the walls had a dreary, stone-like look; she climbed up on a barrel, and removed the hay which filled a rough shelf; in a niche behind was her work-box; with it in her hand she climbed down again.
She gave him the box to hold while she counted out the money—nine francs. "There are twelve in all," she said.
"Then you'll have three left," said Jo Vanny.
"Yes, three." She could not help a sigh of retrospect, the outgoing nine represented so many long hours of toil.
"Let me put the box back," said the boy. It was quickly and deftly done. "Never mind about it, mamma," he said, as he jumped down. "I'll help you to make it up again. I want that front yard as much as you do, now you've told me about it; I think it will be beautiful."