existence. She did not like to think of it even; it had been no fault
of hers, but she felt ashamed that she ever should have been that
little, filthy, unkempt, naked thing, grovelling on the clay floor,
and fighting for mouldy crusts with the other children on the rock of
Ansalda.

"If I had only known when father was alive," she thought; but even if
she had known all she knew now, what could she have done? There had
been nothing to use, nothing to eat, nothing to wear, and the rain
and the snow and the wind had come in on them where they had lain
huddled together on their bed of rotten leaves. Now and then she said
something of that rude childhood of hers to Adone; she was afraid of
the women, but not of him; she trotted after him as the little white
curly dog Signorino trotted after Don Silverio.

"Do not think of those dark days, little one," he said to her. "They
are gone by. Think of your parents and pray for their souls; but let
the rest go; you have all your life to live."

"My mother was young when she died," said the child. "If she had had
food she would not have died. She said so. She kept on gnawing a bit
of rag which was soaked in water; you cheat hunger that way, you
know, but it does not fill you."

"Pour soul! Poor soul!" said Adone, and he thought of the great
markets he had seen in the north, the droves of oxen, the piles of
fruits, the long lines of wine carts, the heaps of slaughtered game,
the countless shops with their electric light, the trains running one
after another all the nights and every night to feed the rich; and he
thought, as he had thought when a boy, that the devil had _troppo