"No fear of that," Lucia replied, "while Nana has a word to say. She is always for bringing him up properly, but little good it does. Now we are ready, I will help you carry home your things, if you will let Maria walk with me to the gate," Lucia bargained.
"Oh, she may I suppose, though she should be at home helping me prepare the dinner. I suppose you have some secrets between you that an old grayhead can't hear," she grumbled good-naturedly.
"Oh, yes a fine secret!" Lucia replied laughing, as she picked up the greatest share of the burden and led the way.
Maria and her mother lived in an old stone house that had once been a palace. It was hardly palatial now, but it was very picturesque. It housed five families besides the Rudinis, and in spite of the many lines of wash that floated from its windows, it still retained enough of its old grandeur to be an interesting spot to the occasional tourist who visited Cellino. Maria and her mother were very proud of this distinction. It made up somewhat for the loss of their house, which they had been forced to leave, when six months before Maria's two brothers had gone off to fight.
The new quarters were not far from the market place and they soon reached them. Their rooms were on the ground floor, and Lucia and Maria made haste to drop what they were carrying and start off again at a much slower pace for the gate. The sun was low in the west. It was setting in a bank of golden clouds over the little river that ran parallel with the west wall of the town. Lucia stopped to look at it.
"Rain to-morrow, I suppose, by the look of those clouds," she said, a real pucker of concern between her eyes.
"And no wonder," Maria agreed, "with all this banging of guns one would think it would rain all the time out of pity for so much suffering."
"Now, Maria, don't begin to cry," Lucia protested not unkindly. "It will do you no good, and it will only make things look worse than they really are."
"How can they?" Maria demanded, with more show of resentment than was usual with her quiet acceptance of things. "Only this morning I sold milk to such a sweet boy from the south. He had great sad, brown eyes like yours, and he was very young and unhappy. His father and brother were both killed, and now he is going."
"But perhaps he won't be killed," Lucia said practically. "Anyway, he will get a chance to do a little killing first, and surely that is enough to satisfy any one, or ought to be."