When he went back to his house that evening, with his great net on
his shoulder and swinging in one hand some fresh-water fish, he
looked at the stone bench, which was empty of all except some fallen
rose-leaves, and then anxiously, questioningly, in the face of his
mother.

So he answered the regard.

"The girl is gone to Gianna's custody," she said rather harshly.
"Gianna will give her her supper, and will let her sleep in the loft.
With the morning we will see what we can do for her, and how she can
be sped upon her way."

Adone kissed her hands.

"You are always good," he said simply.

"I am weak," answered his mother, "I am weak, Adone; when you wish
anything I consent to it against my judgment."

But she was not weak; or at least only weak in the way in which all
generous natures are so.

On the morrow Nerina was not sped on her way. The old woman, Gianna,
thought well of her.

"She is as clean as a stone in the water," she said; "she has
foul-smelling rags, but her flesh is clean. She woke at dawn, and
asked for something to do. She knows nought, but she is willing and