“It sometimes happens that the saints do not help,” she said to him. And when Gaetano looked unbelieving, she was seized by an uncontrollable desire to convince him, and she said to him that some one had promised her in the name of the Madonna that, if she was a faithful wife to Don Ferrante, her father should enjoy an old age free of care. But now her husband wished to put her father in a brotherhood, which was as wretched as a poor-house and strict as a prison. And the Madonna had not averted it; in eight days it would happen. Gaetano listened to her with the greatest earnestness. That was what induced her to confide the whole story to him. “Donna Micaela,” he said, “you must turn to the black Madonna in the Cathedral.” “So you think that I have not prayed to her?” Gaetano flushed and said almost with anger: “You will not say that you have turned in vain to the black Madonna?” “I have prayed to her in vain these last three weeks--prayed to her, prayed to her.” When Donna Micaela spoke of it she could scarcely breathe. She wanted to weep over herself because she had awaited help each day, and each day been disappointed; and yet had known nothing better to do than begin again with her prayers. And it was visible on her face that her soul lived over and over again what she had suffered, when each day she had awaited an answer to her prayer, while the days slipped by. But Gaetano was unmoved; he stood smiling, and drummed on one of the glass cases that stood on the counter. “Have you only _prayed_ to the Madonna?” he said. Only prayed, only prayed! But she had also promised her to lay aside all sins. She had gone to the street where she had lived first, and nursed the sick woman with the ulcerated leg. She never passed a beggar without giving alms. Only prayed! And she told him that if the Madonna had had the power to help her, she ought to have been satisfied with her prayers. She had spent her days in the Cathedral. And the anguish, the anguish that tortured her, should not that be counted? He only shrugged his shoulders. Had she not tried anything else? Anything else! But there was nothing in the world that she had not tried. She had given silver hearts and wax candles. Her rosary was never out of her hand. Gaetano irritated her. He would not count anything that she had done; he only asked: “Nothing else? Nothing else?” “But you ought to understand,” she said. “Don Ferrante does not give me so much money. I cannot do more. At last I have succeeded in getting some silk and cloth for an altar cloth. You ought to understand!” But Gaetano, who had daily intercourse with the saints, and who knew the power and wildness of enthusiasm that had filled them when they had compelled God to obey their prayers, smiled scornfully at Donna Micaela, who thought she could subjugate the Madonna with wax candles and altar-cloths.