emotion in the voice.

"I don't know what sort of ladies you have ruined," said she, "but you
have a pleasant manner of reparation. The scratch on my cheek smarts,
but not unduly--my foot is as sound as ever it was." She helped me perch
the faggot on my head, and we walked on together. This last generosity
had touched me.

Her name, she told me, was Virginia Strozzi, and her people were very
poor folk of Condoglia. Condoglia was a village on a spur of the
mountains, the property, with the bodies and souls of its inhabitants,
of a great lord, a marchese. She was sixteen years old and had never
tasted meat. Condoglia was but a mile away; it was getting dark. Would I
spend the night there? "Your honour must not look for decency," she said
with a sad patience which was very touching to me; "you can judge of
what you will find by what you see of me. Rags cover my leanness and
wattles cover my rags. As I am, so are my father and mother, sisters and
brothers--and so I suspect were theirs. You will sleep on litter, you
will eat black bread, and drink foul water. It is what we do year in and
year out, except that sometimes we go without the bread. What do you
say?"

"I say," I replied, "that I am thankful for your kindness to one who has
used you ill. My maladroitness was horrible."

"Your amendment was, however, handsomely done," she said--and added
fiercely, "Let me tell you that nobody has ever touched my foot with his
lips before. I owe you for that."

"You are generous indeed, Virginia," I said; "I shall be proud to be in