dea of the final
catastrophe of humanity. Sometimes prostrating himself with his face
towards the stifling soil, he prayed with agonized intensity till Nature
would sink in a temporary collapse, and sleep, in spite of himself, would
steal over him.

So waned the gloomy hours of the night away, till the morning broke in the
east, turning all the blue wavering floor of the sea to crimson
brightness, and bringing up, with the rising breeze, the barking of dogs,
the lowing of kine, the songs of laborers and boatmen, all fresh and
breezy from the repose of the past night.

Father Francesco heard the sound of approaching footsteps climbing the
lava path, and started with a nervous trepidation. Soon he recognized a
poor peasant of the vicinity, whose child he had tended during a dangerous
illness. He bore with him a little basket of eggs, with a melon and a
fresh green salad.

"Good morning, holy father," he said, bowing humbly. "I saw you coming
this way last night, and I could hardly sleep for thinking of you; and my
good woman, Teresina, would have it that I should come out to look after
you. I have taken the liberty to bring a little offering;--it was the best
we had."

"Thank you, my son," said the monk, looking wistfully at the fresh, honest
face of the peasant. "You have taken too much trouble for such a sinner. I
must not allow myself such indulgences."

"But your Reverence must live. Look you," said the peasant, "at least your
Reverence will take an egg. See here, how handily I can cook one," he
added, striking his stick into a little cavity of a rock, from which, as
from an escape-valve, hissed a jet of hot steam,--"see here, I nestle the
egg in this little cleft, and it will be done in a twinkling. Our good God
gives us our fire for nothing here."

There was something wholesomely kindly and cheerful in the action and
expression of the man, which broke upon the overstrained and disturbed
musings of the monk like daylight on a ghastly dream. The honest, loving
heart sees love in everything; even the fire is its fatherly helper, and
not its avenging enemy.

Father Francesco took the egg, when it was done, with a silent gesture of
thanks.

"If I might make bold to say," said the peasant, encouraged, "your
Reverence should have some care for yourself. If a man will not feed
himself, the good God will not feed him; and we poor people have too few
friends already to let such as you die. Your hands are trembling,