She began to walk wildly up and down. Lucy sprang up, threw on some clothes, and gradually persuaded her to go back to her own room. When she was in bed again, utterly exhausted, Lucy's face—bathed in tears—approached hers:
'Tell me what to do. Have I ever refused you anything?'
* * * * *
The morning broke pure and radiant over the village and the forest. The great slopes of wood were in a deep and misty shadow; the river, shrunk to a thread again, scarcely chattered with its stones. A fresh wind wandered through the trees and over the new-reaped fields.
The Angelus had been rung long ago. There was the bell beginning for Mass. Lucy slipped out into a cool world, already alive with all the primal labours. The children and the mothers and the dogs were up; the peasants among the vines; the men with their peaked hats, the women shrouded from the sun under the heavy folds of their cotton head-gear; turned and smiled as she passed by. They liked the Signorina, and they were accustomed to her early walks.
On the hill she met Father Benecke coming up to Mass. Her cheek reddened, and she stopped to speak to him.
'You are out early, Mademoiselle?'
'It is the only time to walk.'
'Ah! yes—you are right.'
At which a sudden thought made the priest start. He looked down. But this time, he at least was innocent!