Vittoria strained her hands together in extreme entreaty
that she might for a few moments hear what the others were hearing. "I
speak for my son, and I forbid it," Countess Ammiani said. Vittoria fell
back and closed her eyes to cherish the vision. All those faces raised
to the one speaker under the dark sky were beautiful. He had breathed
some new glory of hope in them, making them shine beneath the overcast
heavens, as when the sun breaks from an evening cloud and flushes the
stems of a company of pine-trees.

Along the road to Milan she kept imagining his utterance until her heart
rose with music. A delicious stream of music, thin as poor tears, passed
through her frame, like a life reviving. She reached Milan in a mood to
bear the idea of temporary defeat. Music had forsaken her so long that
celestial reassurance seemed to return with it.

Her mother was at Zotti's, very querulous, but determined not to
leave the house and the few people she knew. She had, as she told her
daughter, fretted so much on her account that she hardly knew whether
she was glad to see her. Tea, of course, she had given up all thoughts
of; but now coffee was rising, and the boasted sweet bread of Lombardy
was something to look at! She trusted that Emilia would soon think of
singing no more, and letting people rest: she might sing when she wanted
money. A letter recently received from Mr. Pericles said that Italy was
her child's ruin, and she hoped Emilia was ready to do as he advised,
and hurry to England, where singing did not upset people, and people
lived like real Christians, not----Vittoria flapped her hand, and
would not hear of the unchristian crimes of the South. As regarded the
expected defence of Milan, the little woman said, that if it brought on
a bombardment, she would call it unpardonable wickedness, and only hoped
that her daughter would repent.

Zotti stood by, interpreting the English to himself by tones. "The
amiable donnina is not of our persuasion," he observed. "She remains
dissatisfied with patriotic Milan. I have exhibited to her my dabs of
bread through all the processes of making and baking. It is in vain. She
rejects analogy. She is wilful as a principessina: 'Tis so! 'tis not so!
'tis my will! be silent, thou! Signora, I have been treated in that way
by your excellent mother."

"Zotti has not been paid for three weeks, and he certainly has not
mentioned it or looked it, I will say, Emilia."

"Zotti has had som