He looked at her in silence for a little while, then returned to his
mother.

"She is tired. She sleeps. Let her rest."

"It is unsafe."

"How unsafe, mother? She is only a child."

"She may have men behind her."

"It is not likely."

Adone could not say (for he had no idea himself) why he felt sure
that this miserable little waif would not abuse hospitality: "She is
a child," he answered rather stupidly, for children are often
treacherous and wicked, and he knew nothing of this one except what
she had chosen to tell of herself.

"She may have men behind her," repeated his mother.

"Such men as you are thinking of, mother, do not come to this valley
nowadays. Ulisse Ferrero was the last of them. Indeed, I think this
poor little creature is all alone in the world. Go and look at her.
You will see how forlorn and small she is."

She went to the doorway and looked at the sleeping beggar; her eyes
softened as she gazed, the whole attitude and appearance of the child
were so miserable and so innocent, so helpless, and yet so tranquil,
that her maternal heart was touched; the waif slept on the stone