She followed him in breathless anxiety. The little room was mean, but clean and neatly kept. Flowers stood in the window; a bird hung in its cage, and began to chirp as the lamp-light disturbed it. On the table lay a simple guitar. The old woman had been sitting near it, at her work. She arose, greeting the new arrival cringingly and confidently. "Good evening, Signer Carlo," she cried; "how goes it? You have just come at the right moment. The poor foolish thing there--not a song would please her, not a string was in tune; and even the bird that you gave her, too, sang too loud for her. 'Daughter,' said I, 'he will be here directly--he who is dearer to you than your eyes, silly girl that you are.' 'Mama,' said she, 'I feel so anxious--my heart beats so--I know not why.' 'Hush, hush!' said I; 'you are a child, to have such a gentleman, who bears you in his very hands, and watches and cares for you like his own heart'"-- --"And who will punish you, you witch!" shrieked Bianchi, striding close up to her--"you poison, you baseness! Thank your grey hairs that you do not feel the weight of my hand!" He shook her violently by the shoulder. The old woman trembled. "Do not play such rough jokes upon a poor old woman," she stammered; "You have frightened me so that I shall have the gout. What! speak gently. Signer Carlo, and do not utter such unchristian words, enough to make one cross and bless oneself! What have you to say against the poor old Neuna?" "What?" foamed Bianchi, and thrust her from him so violently that she sank upon her knees,--"you dare to ask? To play the virtuous to my very face, after you have betrayed me? Away! out of the house, and that without tarrying or whimpering--for I know you, and I ought to have known that you could be no fit guardian, and that treachery nestles in your withered breast!" The old woman had raised herself, and waited with assumed humility a few feet from him, by the window. "You are right, Signor Carlo," she said; "I ought not to have done it; but I pitied the poor lonely creature, because she never got a glimpse of the world Sunday nor working day, and seeing nothing but the roofs opposite, or the dark streets and the little bits of starry sky at midnight, when you take her out now and then. 'Child,' said I, 'he is so kind that he cannot be angry with you, when you tell him this evening that you have been to see the races with me.' She did not like to go, poor thing; but I saw how much she wished it, and so persuaded her. And what harm is done? If you had not made all this noise about it, she would only have had a pleasure the more." "Go!" said Bianchi, with inexorable calmness; "not one word more." The old woman glided to the girl, who was seated on a chair in the corner, with downcast eyes. "Daughter!" she whispered, "do _you_ try him." Caterina cast a glance at Bianchi's face, and shook her head. "It is useless," she answered.