"No, you do not believe it," she answered.

"For you, I will believe in anything, in everything--even in Sor
Marzio's devotions," he said, pressing her to his side. "Only--you see,
darling, he was talking in such a way a few moments before--that it
seemed impossible--"

"Nothing is quite impossible," replied Lucia. "The heart beats fast.
There may be a whole world between one beat and the next."

"Yes, my love," assented Gianbattista, looking tenderly into her eyes.
"But do you think that between all the beatings of our two hearts there
could ever be a world of change?"

"Ah--that is different, Tista. Why should we change? We could only
change for worse if we began to love each other less, and that is
impossible. But papa! Why should he not change for the better? Who can
tell you, Tista, dear, that in a moment, in a second, after you were
gone, he was not sorry for all he had done? It may have been in an
instant. Why not?"

"Things done so very quickly are not done well," answered the young man.
"I know that from my art. You may stamp a thing in a moment with the
die--it is rough, unfinished. It takes weeks to chisel it--"

"The good God is not a chiseller, Tista."

The words fell very simply from the young girl's lips, and the
expression of her face did not change. Only the tone of her voice was
grave and quiet, and there was a depth of conviction in it which struck
Gianbattista forcibly. In a short sentence she had defined the
difference between his mode of thought and her own. To her mind
omnipotence was a reality. To him, it was an inconceivable power, the
absurdity of which he sought to demonstrate by comparing the magnitude
claimed for it with the capacities of man. He remained silent for a
moment, as though seeking an answer. He found none, and what he said
expressed an aspiration and not a retort.

"I sometimes wish that I could believe as you do," he said. "I am sure I
could do much greater things, make much more beautiful angels, if I were
quite sure that they existed."

"Of course you could," answered Lucia. Then, with a tact beyond her
years, she changed the subject of their talk. She would not endanger the
durability of his aspiration by discussing it. "To go back to what we
were speaking of," she said, "you will go to the workshop this
afternoon, Tista, won't you?"

"Yes," he said mechanically. "What else should I do? Oh, Lucia, my
darling, I cannot bear this uncertainty," he cried, suddenly g