The old man nodded and went—to wend his way to Carmignano.
Suddenly he turned back: he was a tender-hearted, fanciful soul, and had had a long, lonely life himself.
"I tell you what," he said, a little timidly; "perhaps the bells, praising God always, ringing the sun in and out, and honouring Our Lady; perhaps they went for something in the lives of the men that made them? I think they must. It would be hard if the bells got everything, the makers nothing."
Over Bruno's face a slight change went. His imperious eyes softened. He knew the old man spoke in kindness.
"Take these home with you. Nay; no thanks," he said, and lifted on the other's back the kreel full of potatoes dug for the market.
The old man blessed him, overjoyed; he was sickly and very poor; and hobbled on his way along the side of the mountains.
Bruno went to other work.
If the bells ring true and clear, and always to the honour of the saints, a man may be content to have sweated for it in the furnace and to be forgot; but—if it be cracked in a fire and the pure ore of it melt away shapeless?