Jo Vanny followed her. "Come along, if you want to," she said, half impatient, half glad. She felt a sudden desire that some one besides herself should see the sacrifice, see the actual despoiling of the little box she had labored to fill. She went to the wood-shed. It was a gloomy December day, and the vegetables hanging on the walls had a dreary, stone-like look; she climbed up on a barrel, and removed the hay which filled a rough shelf; in a niche behind was her work-box; with it in her hand she climbed down again. She gave him the box to hold while she counted out the money--nine francs. "There are twelve in all," she said. "Then you'll have three left," said Jo Vanny. "Yes, three." She could not help a sigh of retrospect, the outgoing nine represented so many long hours of toil. "Let me put the box back," said the boy. It was quickly and deftly done. "Never mind about it, mamma," he said, as he jumped down. "_I_'ll help you to make it up again. I want that front yard as much as you do, now you've told me about it; I think it will be beautiful." "Well," said Prudence, "when the flower-beds are all fixed up, and the new front path and swing gate, it _will_ be kind of nice, I reckon." "Nice?" said Jo Vanny. "That's not the word. 'Twill be an ecstasy! a smile! a dream!" "Bless the boy, what nonsense he talks!" said the step-mother. But she loved to hear his romantic phrases all the same. They went back to the kitchen. The sacrifice had now become a cheerful one. She bent over the heap. "Here's your nine francs, Patro," she shouted. "Come, now, come!" Pietro felt the money in his hand. He rose quietly. "I'm nearly killed with all your yelling," he said. Then he took his hat and left the house. "We did yell," said Prudence, picking up the fragments of the broken scaldino. "I don't quite know why we did." "Never mind why-ing, but get supper," said Granmar. "Then go down on your knees and thank the Virgin for giving us such a merciful, mild old man as Pietro. You brought on his stroke; but what did he do? He just took what you gave him, and went away so forgivingly--the soul of a dove, the spice-cake soul!" * * * * * In January, the short, sharp winter of Italy had possession of Assisi.