No one can work on this earth except as God wills—
". . . God's puppets, best and worst,
Are we; there is no last or first."
And we must not talk of "small events": none exceeds another in greatness. . . .
The revelation has come to her. Not Ottima nor Phene, not Luigi and his mother, not even the holy and beloved priest, ranks higher in God's eyes than she, the little work-girl—
"I will pass each, and see their happiness,
And envy none—being just as great, no doubt,
Useful to men, and dear to God, as they!"
* * * * *
And so, laughing at herself once more because she cares "so mightily" for her one day, but still insistent that the sun shall shine, she sketches her outing—
"Down the grass path grey with dew,
Under the pine-wood, blind with boughs,
Where the swallow never flew,
Nor yet cicala dared carouse,
No, dared carouse—"
But breaks off, breathless, in the singing for which through the whole region she is famed, leaves the "large mean airy chamber," enters the little street of Asolo—and begins her Day.