* * * * *
That New Year's Day, when she had been allowed to get up for the first time, and they had sat round the fire and talked of him, and what he should do when he was big—
"Oh, what a happy, friendly eve was that!"
And next day, old Pietro had been packed off to church, because he was so happy and would talk so much, and Violante thought he would tire her. And then he came back, and was telling them about the Christmas altars at the churches—none was so fine as San Giovanni—
". . . When, at the door,
A tap: we started up: you know the rest."
Pietro had done no harm; Violante had erred in telling the lie about her birth—certainly that was wrong, but it was done with love in it, and even the giving her to Guido had had love in it . . . and at any rate it is all over now, and Pompilia has just been absolved, and thus there "seems not so much pain":
"Being right now, I am happy and colour things.
Yes, everybody that leaves life sees all
Softened and bettered; so with other sights:
To me at least was never evening yet
But seemed far beautifuller than its day,[158:1]
For past is past."
Then she falls to thinking of that real mother, who had sold her before she was born. Violante had told her of it when she came back from the nuns, and was waiting for her boy to come. That mother died at her birth:
"I shall believe she hoped in her poor heart
That I at least might try be good and pure . . .
And oh, my mother, it all came to this?"
Now she too is dying, and leaving her little one behind. But she is leaving him "outright to God":