a big lemon drop that looked hard and everlasting, and set about
sucking it contentedly.

Lucia walked quickly over the grass to a small white-washed cottage a
little distance away. She approached it from the side and peeked
through one of the tiny windows. Old Nana Rudini, her grandmother, was
sitting in a low chair beside the table in the low-ceilinged room. Her
head nodded drowsily, and the white lace that she was making lay
neglected in her lap. Lucia smiled to herself in satisfaction and
stole gently away from the window.

The Rudinis lived about a mile beyond the north gate of Cellino, an old
Italian town built on the summit of a hill. Cellino was not
sufficiently important to appear in the guide books, but it boasted of
two possessions above its neighbors,--a beautiful old church opposite
the market place, and a broad stone wall that dated back to the days of
Roman supremacy. It was still in perfect preservation, and completely
surrounded the town giving it the appearance of a mediaeval fortress,
rather than a twentieth century village. Two roads led to it, one from
the south through the Porto Romano, and one from the north, up-hill and
from the valley below. It was up the latter that Lucia walked. She
was in a hurry and she swung along with a firm, graceful step, her
head, crowned by its heavy dark hair, held high and her shoulders
straight.

The soldier on guard at the gate watched her as she drew nearer. She
was a pleasing picture in her bright-colored gown against the glaring
sun on the dusty white road. Roderigo Vicello had only arrived that
morning in Cellino, and Lucia was not the familiar little figure to him
that she was to the other soldiers. But she was none the less welcome