Marcia paused with her foot on the carriage-step, puzzling over this new cry which was suddenly assailing her at every turn. ‘What is the matter, Giovanni? Why are they always shouting “Wheat”?’ He waved his whip disdainfully. ‘_Chi sa_, signorina? They are of no account. Do not listen to their foolishness.’ They were the same children to whom she had given chocolate not many days before. ‘They forget quickly!’ she said to herself, ‘perhaps, after all, Paul was right, and beauty is their strongest virtue.’ The ‘Ave Maria’ was ringing as she turned into the crooked little streets, and the town was buzzing like a beehive over its evening affairs. Copper water-jars were coming home from the well, blue smoke was pouring out of every chimney, and yellow meal was being sifted outside the doors. Owing to the festa, the streets were crowded with loungers, and in the tiny piazza groups of men were gathered about the door of the tobacco-shop, arguing and quarrelling and gesticulating in their excitable Italian fashion. It had been a week or more since Marcia had visited the village, and now, as she threaded her way through the crowd, it struck her suddenly that the people’s usual friendly nods were a trifle churlish; she had the uncomfortable feeling that group after group fell silent and turned to stare after her as the passed. One little boy shouted ‘Grano!’ and was dragged indoors with a box on his ears. ‘_Madonna mia!_’ cried his anxious mother. ‘Are we not poor enough already, that you would bring down foreign curses upon the house?’ In the bake-shop Domenico served her surlily, answering her friendly inquiries as to the health of his family and the progress of his vineyard with grunts rather than words. Amazed and indignant, she shrank within herself; and with head erect and hotly burning cheeks turned back toward the gate, not so much as glancing at the people, who silently made way for her. ‘Ah, you see,’ they murmured to one another, ‘the foreign signorina played at having a kind heart for amusement. But what does she care for our _miseria_? No more than for the stones beneath her feet.’ * * * * * Laurence Sybert, coming out from the village, was somewhat astonished to find Giovanni drawn up before the gate. Giovanni hailed him with an anxious air. ‘_Scusi_, signore; have you seen the signorina? She is inside.’ He nodded toward the porta. ‘She has gone to the bake-shop alone. I told her the horses were tired, but she paid no attention; and the _ragazzi_ called “Wheat!” but she did not understand.’ ‘They shouted “Wheat!” did they?’ ‘_Si_, signore. They read the papers. The _Avanti_ yesterday——’ Sybert nodded. ‘I know what the _Avanti_ said.’