A year elapsed.
One night, when Brontu was away from home, Aunt Martina heard, or thought she heard, a low murmur of voices in Giovanna's room. Had Brontu come back? the old woman wondered, and if so, why? Could anything have happened at the sheepfolds?
Tormented by the thought, she finally got up. The door was open, and she listened a moment. Yes, undoubtedly some one was talking in Giovanna's room. Not wishing to strike a light, she attempted to cross the room that separated her own chamber from Giovanna's, in the dark. She made a misstep, however, and, trying to recover herself, overthrew a chair. "Holy Mary!" she muttered, setting it right again. Then she groped her way to the door, felt for the handle, and tried to open it. It was locked.
"What do you want?" demanded Giovanna's voice instantly.
"Has Brontu got back?"
"No; why?"
"I thought I heard some one talking. Why have you got the door locked?"
"Is it locked? I must have done it without thinking," said Giovanna innocently. "I'll open it right away; just wait a moment. I was talking to the baby; she wouldn't go to sleep."