The kind protecting tone in which I spoke reassured her. She answered readily:
“Si signor. My mother waits for me to help her with the eccellenza’s dinner.”
I advanced and took the little hand that held the rosary.
“What!” I exclaimed, playfully, “do you still work hard, little Lilla, even when the apple season is over?”
She laughed musically.
“Oh! I love work. It is good for the temper. People are so cross when their hands are idle. And many are ill for the same reason. Yes, truly!” and she nodded her head with grave importance, “it is often so. Old Pietro, the cobbler, took to his bed when he had no shoes to mend—yes; he sent for the priest and said he would die, not for want of money—oh no! he has plenty, he is quite rich—but because he had nothing to do. So my mother and I found some shoes with holes, and took them to him; he sat up in bed to mend them, and now he is as well as ever! And we are careful to give him something always.”
She laughed again, and again looked grave.
“Yes, yes!” she said, with a wise shake of her little glossy head, “one cannot live without work. My mother says that good women are never tired, it is only wicked persons who are lazy. And that reminds me I must make haste to return and prepare the eccellenza’s coffee.”
“Do you make my coffee, little one?” I asked, “and does not Vincenzo help you?”
The faintest suspicion of a blush tinged her pretty cheeks.