Kitobni o'qish: «The Miracles of Antichrist», sahifa 13

VI
FRA FELICE’S LEGACY

When Donna Emilia opened the ticket-office to sell tickets for the second performance of “The Old Martyrdom,” the people stood in line to get places; the second evening the theatre was so overcrowded that people fainted in the crush, and the third evening people came from both Adernó and Paternó to see the beloved tragedy. Don Antonio foresaw that he would be able to play it a whole month for double price, and with two performances every evening.

How happy they were, he and Donna Emilia, and with what joy and gratitude they laid twenty-five lire in the collection-box of the little image!

In Diamante the incident caused great surprise, and many came to Donna Elisa to find out if she believed that the saint wished them to support Donna Micaela.

“Have you heard, Donna Elisa,” they said, “that Don Antonio Greco has been helped by the Christchild in San Pasquale, because he promised to give the receipts of one evening to Donna Micaela’s railway?”

But when they asked Donna Elisa about it, she shut her mouth and looked as if she could not think of anything but her embroidery.

Fra Felice himself came in and told her of the two miracles the image had already worked.

“Signorina Tottenham was very stupid to let the image go, if it is such a miracle-worker,” said Donna Elisa.

So they all thought. Signorina Tottenham had owned the image many years, and she had not noticed anything. It probably could not work miracles; it was only a coincidence.

It was unfortunate that Donna Elisa would not believe. She was the only one of the old Alagonas left in Diamante, and the people followed her, more than they themselves knew. If Donna Elisa had believed, the whole town would have helped Donna Micaela.

But Donna Elisa could not believe that God and the saints wished to aid her sister-in-law.

She had watched her since the festival of San Sebastiano. Whenever any one spoke of Gaetano, she turned pale, and looked very troubled. Her features became like those of a sinful man, when he is racked with the pangs of conscience.

Donna Elisa sat and thought of it one morning, and it was so engrossing that she let her needle rest. “Donna Micaela is no Etna woman,” she said to herself. “She is on the side of the government; she is glad that Gaetano is in prison.”

Out in the street at that same moment people came carrying a great stretcher. On it lay heaped up a mass of church ornaments; chandeliers and shrines and reliquaries. Donna Elisa looked up for a moment, then returned to her thoughts.

“She would not let me adorn the house of the Alagonas on the festival of San Sebastiano,” she thought. “She did not wish the saint to help Gaetano.”

Two men came by dragging a rattling dray on which lay a mountain of red hangings, richly embroidered stoles, and altar pictures in broad, gilded frames.

Donna Elisa struck out with her hand as if to push away all doubts. It could not be an actual miracle which had happened. The saint must know that Diamante could not afford to build a railway.

People now came past driving a yellow cart, packed full of music-stands, prayer-books, praying-desks and confessionals.

Donna Elisa woke up. She looked out between the rosaries that hung in garlands over the window panes. That was the third load of church furnishings that had passed. Was Diamante being plundered? Had the Saracens come to the town?

She went to the door to see better. Again came a stretcher, and on it lay mourning-wreaths of tin, tablets with long inscriptions, and coats of arms, such as are hung up in churches in memory of the dead.

Donna Elisa asked the bearers, and learned what was happening. They were clearing out the church of Santa Lucia in Gesù. The syndic and the town council had ordered it turned into a theatre.

After the uprising there had been a new syndic in Diamante. He was a young man from Rome, who did not know the town, but nevertheless wished to do something for it. He had proposed to the town-council that Diamante should have a theatre like Taormina and other towns. They could quite easily fit up one of the churches as a play-house. They certainly had more than enough, with five town churches and seven monastery churches; they could easily spare one of them.

There was for instance the Jesuits’ church, Santa Lucia in Gesù. The monastery surrounding it was already changed to a barracks, and the church was practically deserted. It would make an excellent theatre.

That was what the new syndic had proposed, and the town-council had agreed to it.

When Donna Elisa heard what was going on she threw on her mantilla and veil, and hurried to the Lucia church, with the same haste with which one hurries to the house where one knows that some one is dying.

“What will become of the blind?” thought Donna Elisa. “How can they live without Santa Lucia in Gesù?”

When Donna Elisa reached the silent little square, round which the Jesuits’ long, ugly monastery is built, she saw on the broad stone steps that extend the whole length of the church front, a row of ragged children and rough-haired dogs. All of them were leaders of the blind, and they cried and whined as loud as they could.

“What is the matter with you all?” asked Donna Elisa. “They want to take our church away from us,” wailed the children. And thereupon all the dogs howled more piteously than ever, for the dogs of the blind are almost human.

At the church-door Donna Elisa met Master Pamphilio’s wife, Donna Concetta. “Ah, Donna Elisa,” she said, “never in all your life have you seen anything so terrible. You had better not go in.”

But Donna Elisa went on.

In the church at first she saw nothing but a white cloud of dust. But hammer-strokes thundered through the cloud, for some workmen were busy breaking away a big stone knight, lying in a window niche.

“Lord God!” said Donna Elisa, and clasped her hands together; “they are tearing down Sor Arrigo!” And she thought how tranquilly he had lain in his niche. Every time she had seen him she had wished that she might be as remote from disturbance and change as old Sor Arrigo.

In the church of Lucia there was still another big monument. It represented an old Jesuit, lying on a black marble sarcophagus with a scourge in his hand and his cap drawn far down over his forehead. He was called Father Succi, and the people used to frighten their children with him in Diamante.

“Would they also dare to touch Father Succi?” thought Donna Elisa. She felt her way through the plaster dust to the choir, where the sarcophagus stood, in order to see if they had dared to move the old Jesuit.

Father Succi still lay on his stone bed. He lay there dark and hard, as he had been in life; and one could almost believe that he was still alive. Had there been doctors and tables with medicine-bottles and burning candles beside the bed, one would have believed that Father Succi lay sick in the choir of his church, waiting for his last hour.

The blind sat round about him, like members of the family who gather round a dying man, and rocked their bodies in silent grief. There were both the women from the hotel court-yard, Donna Pepa and Donna Tura; there was old Mother Saraedda, who ate the bread of charity at the house of the Syndic Voltaro; there were blind beggars, blind singers, blind of all ages and conditions. All the blind of Diamante were there, and in Diamante there is an incredible number who no longer see the light of the sun.

They all sat silent most of the time, but every now and then one of them burst into a wail. Sometimes one of them felt his way forward to the monk, Father Succi, and threw himself weeping aloud across him.

It made it all the more like a death-bed that the priest and Father Rossi from the Franciscan monastery were there and were trying to comfort the despairing people.

Donna Elisa was much moved. Ah, so often she had seen those people happy in her garden, and now to meet them in such misery! They had won pleasant tears from her when they had sung mourning-songs over her husband, Signor Antonelli, and over her brother, Don Ferrante. She could not bear to see them in such need.

Old Mother Saraedda began to speak to Donna Elisa.

“I knew nothing when I came, Donna Elisa,” said the old woman. “I left my dog outside on the steps and went in through the church door. Then I stretched out my arm to push aside the curtain over the door, but the curtain was gone. I put my foot down as if there were a step to mount before the threshold, but there was no step. I stretched out my hand to take the holy water; I courtesied as I went by the high altar; and I listened for the little bell that always rings when Father Rossi comes to the mass. Donna Elisa, there was no holy water, no altar, no bell; there was nothing!”

“Poor thing, poor thing,” said Donna Elisa.

“Then I hear how they are hammering and pounding up in a window. ‘What are you doing with Sor Arrigo?’ I cry, for I hear instantly that it is in Sor Arrigo’s window.

“‘We are going to carry him away,’ they answer me.

“Just then the priest, Don Matteo, comes to me, takes me by the hand, and explains everything. And I am almost angry with the priest when he says that it is for a theatre. They want our church for a theatre!

“‘Where is Father Succi?’ I say instantly. ‘Is Father Succi still here?’ And he leads me to Father Succi. He has to lead me, for I cannot find my way. Since they have taken away all the chairs and praying-desks and carpets and platforms and folding steps, I cannot find my way. Before, I found my way about here as well as you.”

“The priest will find you another church,” said Donna Elisa. “Donna Elisa,” said the old woman, “what are you saying? You might as well say that the priest can give us sight. Can Don Matteo give us a church where we see, as we saw in this? None of us needed a guide here. There, Donna Elisa, stood an altar; the flowers on it were red as Etna at sunset, and we saw it. We counted sixteen wax-lights over the high altar on Sundays, and thirty on festival days. We could see when Father Rossi held the mass here. What shall we do in another church, Donna Elisa? There we shall not be able to see anything. They have extinguished the light of our eyes anew.”

Donna Elisa’s heart grew as warm as if molten lava had run over it. It was certainly a great wrong they were doing to those blind unfortunates.

So Donna Elisa went over to Don Matteo.

“Your Reverence,” she said, “have you spoken to the syndic?”

“Alas, alas, Donna Elisa,” said Don Matteo, “it is better for you to try to talk to him than for me.”

“Your Reverence, the syndic is a stranger; perhaps he has not heard of the blind.”

“Signor Voltaro has been to him; Father Rossi has been to him; and I too, I too. He answers nothing but that he cannot change what is decided in the town Junta. We all know, Donna Elisa, that the town Junta cannot take back anything. If it has decided that your cat shall hold mass in the Cathedral, it cannot change it.”

Suddenly there was a movement in the church. A large blind man came in. “Father Elia!” the people whispered, “Father Elia!”

Father Elia was the head man of the company of blind singers, who always collected there. He had long white hair and beard, and was beautiful as one of the holy patriarchs.

He, like all the others, went forward to Father Succi. He sat down beside him, and leaned his head against the coffin.

Donna Elisa went up to Father Elia and spoke to him. “Father Elia,” she said, “you ought to go to the syndic.”

The old man recognized Donna Elisa’s voice, and he answered her, in his thick, old-man’s tones: —

“Do you suppose that I have waited to have you say that to me? Don’t you know that my first thought was to go to the syndic?”

He spoke with such a hard and distinct voice that the workmen stopped hammering and listened, thinking some one had begun to preach.

“I told him that we blind singers are a company, and that the Jesuits opened their church for us more than three hundred years ago, and gave us the right to gather here to select new members and try new songs.

“And I said to him that there are thirty of us in the company; and that the holy Lucia is our patroness; and that we never sing in the streets, only in courts and in rooms; and that we sing legends of the saints and mourning-songs, but never a wanton song; and that the Jesuit, Father Succi, opened the church for us, because the blind are Our Lord’s singers.

“I told him that some of us are recitatori, who can sing the old songs, but others are trovatori, who compose new ones. I said to him that we give pleasure to many on the noble isle. I asked him why he wished to deprive us of life. For the homeless cannot live.

“I said to him that we wander from town to town through all Etna, but the church of Lucia is our home, and mass is held here for us every morning. Why should he refuse us the comfort of God’s word?

“I told him that the Jesuits once changed their attitude towards us and wished to drive us away from their church, but they did not succeed. We received a letter from the Viceroy that we might hold our meetings in perpetuity in Santa Lucia in Gesù. And I showed him the letter.”

“What did he answer?”

“He laughed at me.”

“Can none of the other gentlemen help you?”

“I have been to them, Donna Elisa. All the morning I have been sent from Herod to Pilatus.”

“Father Elia,” said Donna Elisa with lowered voice, “have you forgotten to call on the saints?”

“I have called on both the black Madonna and San Sebastiano and Santa Lucia. I have prayed to as many as I could name.”

“Do you think, Father Elia,” said Donna Elisa, and lowered her voice still more, “that Don Antonio Greco was helped, because he promised money to Donna Micaela’s railway?”

“I have no money to give,” said the old man, disconsolately.

“Still, you ought to think of it, Father Elia,” said Donna Elisa, “since you are in such straits. You ought to try if, by promising the Christ-image that you yourself and all who belong to your company will speak and sing of the railway, and persuade people to give contributions to it, you may keep your church. We do not know if it can help, but one ought to try every possible thing, Father Elia. It costs nothing to promise.”

“I will promise anything for your sake,” said the old man.

He laid his old blind head again against the black coffin, and Donna Elisa understood that he had given the promise in his desire to be left in peace with his sorrow.

“Shall I present your vow to the Christ-image?” she said.

“Do as you will, Donna Elisa,” said the old man.

That same day old Fra Felice had risen at five o’clock in the morning and begun to sweep out his church. He felt quite active and well; but while he was working it seemed as if San Pasquale, sitting with his bag of stones outside the church-door, had something to say to him. He went out, but there was nothing the matter with San Pasquale; quite the contrary. Just then the sun glided up from behind Etna, and down the dark mountain-sides the rays came hurrying, many-colored as harp-strings. When the rays reached Fra Felice’s old church they turned it rosy red; rosy red were also the old barbaric pillars that held up the canopy over the image, and San Pasquale with his bag of stones, and Fra Felice himself. “We look like young boys,” thought the old man; “we have still long years to live.”

But as he was going back into the church, he felt a sharp pressure at his heart, and it came into his mind that San Pasquale had called him out to say farewell. At the same time his legs became so heavy that he could hardly move them. He felt no pain, but a weariness which could mean nothing but death. He was scarcely able to put his broom away behind the door of the sacristy; then he dragged himself up the choir, lay down on the platform in front of the high altar, and wrapped his cloak about him.

The Christ-image seemed to nod to him and say: “Now I need you, Fra Felice.” He lay and nodded back: “I am ready; I shall not fail you.”

It was only to lie and wait; and it was beautiful, Fra Felice thought. He had never before in all his life had time to feel how tired he was. Now at last he might rest. The image would keep up the church and the monastery without him.

He lay and smiled at the thought that old San Pasquale had called him out to say good-morning to him.

Fra Felice lay thus till late in the day, and dozed most of the time. No one was with him, and a feeling came over him that it would not do to creep in this way out of life. It was as if he had cheated somebody of something. That woke him time after time. He ought of course to get the priests, but he had no one to send for them.

While he lay there he thought that he shrank together more and more. Every time he awoke he thought that he had grown smaller. He felt as if he were quite disappearing. Now he could certainly wind his cloak four times about him.

He would have died quite by himself if Donna Elisa had not come to ask help for the blind of the little image. She was in a strange mood when she came, for she wished of course to get help for the blind, but yet she did not wish Donna Micaela’s plans to be promoted.

When she came into the church she saw Fra Felice lying on the platform under the altar, and she went forward and knelt beside him.

Fra Felice turned his eyes towards her and smiled quietly. “I am going to die,” he said, hoarsely; but he corrected himself and said: “I am permitted to die.”

Donna Elisa asked what the matter was, and said that she would fetch help.

“Sit down here,” he said, and made a feeble attempt to wipe away the dust on the platform with his sleeve.

Donna Elisa said that she wished to fetch the priests and sisters of charity.

He seized her skirt and held her back.

“I want to speak to you first, Donna Elisa.”

It was hard for him to talk, and he breathed heavily after each word. Donna Elisa sat down beside him and waited.

He lay for a while and panted; then a flush rose to his cheeks; his eyes began to shine, and he spoke with ease and eagerness.

“Donna Elisa,” said Fra Felice, “I have a legacy to give away. It has troubled me all day. I do not know to whom I shall give it.”

“Fra Felice,” said Donna Elisa, “do not concern yourself with such a thing. There is no one who does not need a good gift.”

But now when Fra Felice’s strength had returned, he wished, before he made up his mind about the legacy, to tell Donna Elisa how good God had been to him.

“Has not God been great in his grace to make me a polacco?” he said.

“Yes, it is a great gift,” said Donna Elisa.

“Only to be a little, little polacco is a great gift,” said Fra Felice; “it is especially useful since the monastery has been given up, and when my comrades are gone or dead. It means having a bag full of bread before one even stretches out one’s hand to beg. It means always seeing bright faces, and being greeted with deep reverences. I know no greater gift for a poor monk, Donna Elisa.”

Donna Elisa thought how revered and loved Fra Felice had been, because he had been able to predict what numbers would come out in the lottery. And she could not help agreeing with him.

“If I came wandering along the road in the heat,” said Fra Felice, “the shepherd came to me and went with me a long way, and held his umbrella over me as shelter against the sun. And when I came to the laborers in the cool stone-quarries, they shared their bread and their bean-soup with me. I have never been afraid of brigands nor of carabinieri. The official at the custom-house has shut his eyes when I went by with my bag. It has been a good gift, Donna Elisa.”

“True, true,” said Donna Elisa.

“It has not been an arduous profession,” said Fra Felice. “They spoke to me, and I answered them; that was all. They knew that every word has its number, and they noticed what I said and played accordingly. I never knew how it happened, Donna Elisa; it was a gift from God.”

“You will be a great loss to the poor people, Fra Felice,” said Donna Elisa.

Fra Felice smiled. “They care nothing for me on Sunday and Monday, when there has just been a drawing,” he said. “But they come on Thursday and Friday and on Saturday morning, because there is a drawing every Saturday.”

Donna Elisa began to be anxious, because the dying man thought of nothing but that. Suddenly there flashed across her memory thoughts of one and another who had lost in the lottery, and she remembered several who had played away all their prosperity. She wished to turn his thoughts from that sinful lottery business.

“You said that you wished to speak of your will, Fra Felice.”

“But it is because I have so many friends that it is hard for me to know to whom I shall give the legacy. Shall I give it to those who have baked sweet cakes for me, or to those who have offered me artichokes, browned in sweet oil? Or shall I bequeath it to the sisters of charity who nursed me when I was ill?”

“Have you much to give away, Fra Felice?”

“It will do, Donna Elisa. It will do.”

Fra Felice seemed to be worse again; he lay silent with panting breast.

“I had also wished to give it to all poor, homeless monks, who had lost their monasteries,” he whispered.

And then after thinking for a while: “I should also have liked to give it to the good old man in Rome. He, you know, who watches over us all.”

“Are you so rich, Fra Felice?” said Donna Elisa.

“I have enough, Donna Elisa; I have enough.”

He closed his eyes, and rested for a while; then he said: —

“I want to give it to everybody, Donna Elisa.”

He acquired new strength at the thought; a slight flush was again visible in his cheeks, and he raised himself on his elbow.

“See here, Donna Elisa,” he said, while he thrust his hand into his cloak and drew out a sealed envelope, which he handed to her, “you shall go and give this to the syndic, to the syndic of Diamante.

“Here, Donna Elisa,” said Fra Felice, “here are the five numbers that win next Saturday. They have been revealed to me, and I have written them down. And the syndic shall take these numbers and have them fastened up on the Roman Gate, where everything of importance is published. And he shall let the people know that it is my testament. I bequeath it to the people. Five winning numbers, a whole quintern, Donna Elisa!”

Donna Elisa took the envelope and promised to give it to the syndic. She could do nothing else, for poor Fra Felice had not many minutes left to live.

“When Saturday comes,” said Fra Felice, “there will be many who will think of Fra Felice. ‘Can old Fra Felice have deceived us?’ they will ask themselves. ‘Can it be possible for us to win the whole quintern?’

“On Saturday evening there is a drawing on the balcony of the town-hall in Catania, Donna Elisa. Then they carry out the lottery-wheel and table, and the managers of the lottery are there, and the pretty little poor-house child. And one number after another is put into the lucky wheel until they are all there, the whole hundred.

“All the people stand below and tremble in expectation, as the sea trembles before the storm-wind.

“Everybody from Diamante will be there, and they will stand quite pale and hardly daring to look one another in the face. Before, they have believed, but not now. Now they think that old Fra Felice has deceived them. No one dares to cherish the smallest hope.

“Then the first number is drawn, and I was right. Ah, Donna Elisa, they will be so astonished they will scarcely be able to rejoice. For they have all expected disappointment. When the second number comes out, there is the silence of death. Then comes the third. The lottery managers will be astonished that everything is so quiet. ‘To-day they are not winning anything,’ they will say. ‘To-day the state has all the prizes.’ Then comes the fourth number. The poor-house child takes the roll from the wheel; and the marker opens the roll, and shows the number. Down among the people it is almost terrible; no one is able to say a word for joy. Then the last number comes. Donna Elisa, the people scream, they cry, they fall into one another’s arms and sob. They are rich. All Diamante is rich – ”

Donna Elisa had kept her arm under Fra Felice’s head and supported him while he had panted out all this. Suddenly his head fell heavily back. Old Fra Felice was dead.

While Donna Elisa was with old Fra Felice, many people in Diamante had begun to trouble themselves about the blind. Not the men; most of the men were in the fields at work; but the women. They had come in crowds to Santa Lucia to console the blind, and finally, when about four hundred women had gathered together, it occurred to them to go and speak to the syndic.

They had gone up to the square and called for the syndic. He had come out on the balcony of the town-hall, and they had prayed for the blind. The syndic was a kind and handsome man. He had answered them pleasantly, but had not been willing to yield. He could not repeal what had been decided in the town Junta. But the women were determined that it should be repealed, and they remained in the square. The syndic went into the town-hall again, but they stayed in the square and called and prayed. They did not intend to go away till he yielded.

While this was going on, Donna Elisa came to give the syndic Fra Felice’s testament. She was grieved unto death at all the misery, but at the same time she felt a bitter satisfaction, because she had received no help from the Christchild. She had always believed that the saints did not wish to help Donna Micaela.

It was a fine gift she had received in San Pasquale’s church. Not only could it not help the blind, but it was in a fair way to ruin the whole town. Now what little the people still possessed would go to the lottery collector. There would be a borrowing and a pawning.

The syndic admitted Donna Elisa immediately, and was as calm and polite as always, although the women were calling in the square, the blind were bemoaning themselves in the waiting-room, and people had run in and out of his room all day.

“How can I be at your service, Signora Antonelli?” he said. Donna Elisa first looked about and wondered to whom he was speaking. Then she told about the testament.

The syndic was neither frightened nor surprised. “That is very interesting,” he said, and stretched out his hand for the paper.

But Donna Elisa held the envelope fast and asked: “Signor Sindaco, what do you intend to do with it? Do you intend to fasten it to the Roman Gate?”

“Yes; what else can I do, signora? It is a dead man’s last wish.”

Donna Elisa would have liked to tell him what a terrible testament it was, but she checked herself to speak of the blind.

“Padre Succi, who directed that the blind should always be allowed in his church, is also a dead man,” she interposed.

“Signora Antonelli, are you beginning with that too?” said the syndic, quite kindly. “It was a mistake; but why did no one tell me that the blind frequent the church of Lucia? Now, since it is decided, I cannot annul the decision; I cannot.”

“But their rights and patents, Signor Sindaco?”

“Their rights are worth nothing. They have to do with the Jesuits’ monastery, but there is no longer such a monastery. And tell me, Signora Antonelli, what will become of me if I yield?”

“The people will love you as a good man.”

“Signora, people will believe that I am a weak man, and every day I shall have four hundred laborers’ wives outside the town-hall, begging now for one thing, now for another. It is only to hold out for one day. To-morrow it will be forgotten.”

“To-morrow!” said Donna Elisa; “we shall never forget it.”

The syndic smiled, and Donna Elisa saw that he thought that he knew the people of Diamante much better than she.

“You think that their hearts are in it?” he said.

“I think so, Signor Sindaco.”

Then the syndic laughed softly. “Give me that envelope, Signora.”

He took it and went out on the balcony.

He began to speak to the women. “I wish to tell you,” he said, “that I have just now heard that old Fra Felice is dead, and that he has left a legacy to you all. He has written down five numbers that are supposed to win in the lottery next Saturday, and he bequeaths them to you. No one has seen them yet. They are lying here in this envelope, and it is unopened.”

He was silent a moment to let the women have time to think over what he had said.

Instantly they began to cry: “The numbers, the numbers!”

The syndic signed to them to be silent.

“You must remember,” he said, “that it was impossible for Fra Felice to know what numbers will be drawn next Saturday. If you play on these numbers, you may all lose. And we cannot afford to be poorer than we are already here in Diamante. I ask you therefore to let me destroy the testament without any one seeing it.”

“The numbers,” cried the women, “give us the numbers!”

“If I am permitted to destroy the testament,” said the syndic, “I promise you that the blind shall have their church again.”

There was silence in the square. Donna Elisa rose from her seat in the hall of the court-house and seized the back of her chair with both hands.

“I leave it to you to choose between the church and the numbers,” said the syndic.

“God in heaven!” sighed Donna Elisa, “is he a devil to tempt poor people in such a way?”

“We have been poor before,” cried one of the women, “we can still be poor.”

“We will not choose Barabbas instead of Christ,” cried another.

The syndic took a match-box from his pocket, lighted a match, and brought it slowly up to the testament.

The women stood quiet and let Fra Felice’s five numbers be destroyed. The blind people’s church was saved.

“It is a miracle,” whispered old Donna Elisa; “they all believe in Fra Felice, and they let his numbers burn. It is a miracle.”

Later in the afternoon Donna Elisa again sat in her shop with her embroidery frame. She looked old as she sat there, and there was something shaken and broken about her. It was not the usual Donna Elisa; it was a poor, elderly, forsaken woman.

She drew the needle slowly through the cloth, and when she wished to take another stitch she was uncertain and at a loss. It was hard for her to keep the tears from falling on her embroidery and spoiling it.