the floor within his reach, and a glass of lemonade was
set upon the window-sill, but he seemed quite absorbed in making fine
stitches. He looked up, however, as they came in and smiled at his
mother.

"I have nearly finished," he said. "Presently I shall read the
sonnet, '_Pace non trovo, e non ho da far guerra_,' to refresh
myself."

"This is the signorina who teaches English, _nino mio_."

His face lit up at once and he held out his hand. "I have already
studied the grammar, but the pronunciation ... ah! that will be hard
to learn. Will you help me, signorina?"

"Yes, indeed I will. We will read and talk together, and soon you will
speak English better than I can Italian."

As she spoke and smiled her heart ached to see the hollowness of his
cheeks and the lines of pain about his young mouth. She guessed that
his poor body was all twisted and deformed under the rug that covered
it. Signora Aurelia took her out on to their little terrace garden
before she left. Twenty miles and more of fair Tuscan earth lay at
their feet, grey olive groves and green vineyards, and the hills
beyond all shimmering in the first heat of spring. Olive exclaimed at
the beauty of the world.

"Yes. On summer evenings Astorre can lie here and watch what he calls
the pageant of the skies. The poor child is so fond of colour. I know
you will be very patient with him, signorina. He is so clever, but
some days he is in pain, and then he gets tired and so cannot learn so
well. You have kindly promised to come twice a week, but I must tell
you that I am not rich--" She looked at Olive wistfully.

The girl dared not offer to teach Astorre for nothing. "I can see your
son will be a very good pupil," she said hastily. "Would one lire the
lesson suit you?"

"Oh, yes," the signora said with evident relief. "But are you sure
that is enough? You must not sacrifice yourself, my dear--"

"It will be a pleasure to come," Olive said very sincerely.

The acquaintance soon ripened into a triangular friendship. The
signora grew to love the girl because she amused Astorre and was never
obviously sorry for him, or too gentle with him, as were some of the
well-meaning people who came to see the boy. "An overflow of pity is
like grease exuding," he said once. "I hate it."

He was very old for his years. He had read everything apparently, and
he discussed problems of life and death with the air of a man of
forty. He had no illusions about himself. "I sha