would pretend to be the figures on the tapestry:--

"You know the figures never were ourselves.
. . . Thus all my life."

Her life is like a "fairy thing that fades and fades."

"--Even to my babe! I thought when he was born,
Something began for me that would not end,
Nor change into a laugh at me, but stay
For evermore, eternally, quite mine."

And hers he is, but he is gone, and it is all so confused that even
_he_ "withdraws into a dream as the rest do." She fancies him grown big,

"Strong, stern, a tall young man who tutors me,
Frowns with the others: 'Poor imprudent child!
Why did you venture out of the safe street?
Why go so far from help to that lone house?
Why open at the whisper and the knock?'"

* * * * *

That New Year's Day, when she had been allowed to get up for the first
time, and they had sat round the fire and talked of him, and what he
should do when he was big--

"Oh, what a happy, friendly eve was that!"

And next day, old Pietro had been packed off to church, because he was
so happy and would talk so much, and Violante thought he would tire her.
And then he came back, and was telling them about the Christmas altars
at the churches--none was so fine as San Giovanni--

". . . When, at the door,
A tap: we started up: you know the rest."

Pietro had done no harm; Violante had erred in telling the lie about her
birth--certainly that was wrong, but it was done with love in it, and
even the giving her to Guido had had love in it . . . and at any rate it
is all over now, and Pompilia has just been absolved, and thus there
"seems not so much pain":

"Being right now, I am happy and colour things.
Yes, everybody that leaves life sees all
Softened and bettered; so with other sights:
_To me at least was never evening yet_
_But seemed far beautifuller than its day_,[158:1]
For past is past."

Then she falls to thinking of that real mother, who had sold her before
she was born. Violante had told her of it when she came back from the
nuns, and was waiting for her boy to come. That mother died at her
birth:

"I shall believe she hoped in her poor heart
That I at least might try be good and pure . . .
And oh, my mother, it all came to this?"

Now she too is dying, and leaving her little one behind