One beautiful and peaceful evening two ladies dressed in black came walking into the little square. For the moment it was almost empty. The two ladies looked about them, and when they saw no one they sat down on the bench by the fountain, and waited. Soon several inquisitive children came forward and looked at them, and the older of the two began to talk to the children. She began to tell them stories: “It is said,” and “It is told,” and “Once upon a time,” she said. Then the children were told of the Christchild who turned himself into roses and lilies when the Madonna met one of Herod’s soldiers, who had been commanded to kill all children. And they were told the legend of how the Christchild once had sat and shaped birds out of clay, and how he clapped his hands and gave the clay pigeons wings with which to fly away when a naughty boy wished to break them to pieces. While the old lady was talking, many children gathered about her, and also big people. It was a Saturday evening, so that the laborers were coming home from their work in the fields. Most of them came up to the Corvaja fountain for water. When they heard that some one was telling legends they stopped to listen. Both the ladies were soon surrounded by a close, dark wall of heavy, black cloaks and slouch hats. Suddenly the old lady said to the children: “Do you like the Christchild?” “Yes, yes,” they said, and their big, dark eyes sparkled.--“Perhaps you would like to see him?”--“Yes, we should indeed.” The lady threw back her mantilla and showed the children a little Christ-image in a jewelled dress, and with a gold crown on his head and gold shoes on his feet. “Here he is,” she said. “I have brought him with me to show you.” The children were in raptures. First they clasped their hands at the sight of the image’s grave face, then they began to throw kisses to it. “He is beautiful, is he not?” said the lady. “Let us have him! Let us have him!” cried the children. But now a big, rough workman, a dark man with a bushy, black beard, pushed forward. He wished to snatch away the image. The old lady had barely time to thrust it behind her back. “Give it here, Donna Elisa, give it here!” said the man. Poor Donna Elisa cast one glance at Donna Micaela, who had sat silent and displeased the whole time by her side. Donna Micaela had been persuaded with difficulty to go to Corvaja and show the image to the people there. “The image helps us when it wills,” she said. “We shall not force miracles.” But Donna Elisa had been determined to go, and she had said that the image was only waiting to be taken to the faithless wretches in Corvaja. After everything that he had done, they might have enough faith in him to believe that he could win them over also. Now she, Donna Elisa, stood there with the man over her, and she did not know how she could prevent him from snatching the image away.