"No one knew either how my father treated my mother, for she would have died a thousand times rather than have said any thing, or complained of him, and all because she loved him. If that is what love does, closing one's lips when one should cry for help, and disarming one against worse than one's worst enemy could do, never shall my heart entrust itself to a man's keeping." "I tell you that you are a child, and do not know what you are talking about. Much this heart of yours will ask you whether it is to love or not when its time is come! All those fine fancies you have got into that little head won't help you much _then_! And that painter, did you also inform him that you expected him to ill-treat you?" "His eyes looked sometimes as my father's used to do when he caressed my mother, and wanted to take her in his arms and make friends with her--I know those eyes! A man can give that look, too, who can think of beating his poor wife, who has never done him ill. I shuddered when I saw those eyes again." Then she remained obstinately silent The padre, too, did not speak. He ran over in his mind many pretty speeches, which he thought might suit the girl's case; but the neighbourhood of the young fisherman, who had become more restless towards the end of the confession, closed his mouth. When, after a voyage of two hours, they gained the little harbour of Capri, Antonino bore the padre from the boat, over the last shallow waves, and placed him respectfully upon the shore; but Lauretta would not wait until he waded back to fetch her; she drew her clothes together, and taking her shoes in one hand and her bundle in the other, splashed hastily to the shore. "I am going to stop some time at Capri to-day," said the padre, "so you need not wait for me; possibly I may not return home till to-morrow. And you, Lauretta, remember me to your mother; I shall see you again this week. You are going back to-night?" "If I have an opportunity," said the girl, arranging her dress. "You know that I must go back," said Antonino, in what he intended as a tone of indifference; "I will wait for you till the Ave Maria; if you do not come then, it will be all the same to me." "You must be in time, Lauretta," said the little priest; "you must not leave your mother alone all night. Is it far where you are going?" "To Anacapri." "And I to Capri. God guard you, my child! and you, my son!" Lauretta kissed his hand, and said a farewell, which the padre and Antonino might have divided between them. Antonino, however, did not claim his share of it; he took off his cap to the padre, and did not look at Lauretta.