doesn't think it's sudden," said Beppa, laughing and tossing her head; "he thinks I've been ages making up my mind. Come on, Denza, do; it's so cold!"
"I don't know Giuseppe, do I?" said Prudence, trudging on again; "I don't remember the name."
"No; I've never brought him up to the house. But the boys know him – Paolo and Pasquale; Augusto, too. He's well off, Giuseppe is; he's got beautiful furniture. He's a first-rate mason, and gets good wages, so I sha'n't have to work any more – I mean go out to work as I do now."
"Bepper, do you like him?" said Prudence, stopping again. She took hold of the girl's wrist and held it tightly.
"Of course I like him," said Beppa, freeing herself. "How cold your hands are, Denza – ugh!"
"You ain't marrying him for his furniture? You love him for himself – and better than any one else in the whole world?" Prudence went on, solemnly.
"Oh, how comical you do look, standing there talking about love, with your white hair and your great big basket!" said Beppa, breaking into irrepressible laughter. The cold had not made her hideous, as it makes so many Italians hideous; her face was not empurpled, her fine features were not swollen. She looked handsome. What was even more attractive on such a day, she looked warm. As her merriment ceased, a sudden change came over her. "Sainted Maria! she doubts whether I love him! Love him? Why, you poor old woman, I'd die for him to-morrow. I'd cut myself in pieces for him this minute." Her great black eyes gleamed; the color flamed in her oval cheeks; she gave a rich, angry laugh.
It was impossible to doubt her, and Prudence did not doubt. "Well, I'm right down glad, Bepper," she said, in a softened tone – "right down glad, my dear." She was thinking of her own love for the girl's father.
"I was coming up," continued Beppa, "because I thought I'd better talk it over with you."
"Of course," said Prudence, cordially. "A girl can't get married all alone; nobody ever heard of that."
"I sha'n't be much alone, for Giuseppe's family's a very big one; too big, I tell him – ten brothers and sisters. But they're all well off, that's one comfort. Of course I don't want to shame 'em."
"Of course not," said Prudence, assenting again. Then, with the awakened memories still stirring in her heart: "It's a pity your father isn't here now," she said, in a moved tone; "he'd have graced a wedding, Bepper, he was so handsome." She seldom spoke of Tonio; the subject was too sacred; but it seemed to her as if she might venture a few words to this his daughter on the eve of her own marriage.
"Yes, it's a pity, I suppose," answered Beppa. "Still, he would have been an old man now. And 'tain't likely he would have had a good coat either – that is, not such a one as I should call good."
"Yes, he would; I'd have made him one," responded Prudence, with a spark of anger. "This whole basket's full of coats now."
"I know you're wonderful clever with your needle," said the girl, glancing carelessly at the basket that weighed down her step-mother's shoulders. "I can't think how you can sew so steadily, year in, year out; I never could."
"Well, I've had to get stronger spectacles," Prudence confessed. "And they wouldn't take my old ones in exchange, neither, though they were perfectly good."
"They're robbers, all of them, at that shop," commented Beppa, agreeingly.
"Now, about your clothes, Bepper – when are you going to begin? I suppose you'll come home for a while, so as to have time to do 'em; I can help you some, and Nounce too; Nounce can sew a little."
"No, I don't think I'll come home; 'twouldn't pay me. About the clothes – I'm going to buy 'em."
"They won't be half so good," Prudence began. Then she stopped. "I'm very glad you've got the money laid up, my dear," she said, commendingly.
"Oh, but I haven't," answered Beppa, laughing. "I want to borrow it of you; that is what I came up for to-day – to tell you about it."
Prudence, her heart still softened, looked at the handsome girl with gentle eyes. "Why, of course I'll lend it to you, Bepper," she said. "How much do you want?"
"All you've got won't be any too much, I reckon," answered Beppa, with pride. "I shall have to have things nice, you know; I don't want to shame 'em."
"I've got twenty-five francs," said Prudence; "I mean I've got that amount saved and put away; 'twas for – for a purpose – something I was going to do; but 'tain't important; you can have it and welcome." Her old face, as she said this, looked almost young again. "You see, I'm so glad to have you happy," she went on. "And I can't help thinking – if your father had only lived – the first wedding in his family! However, I'll come – just as though I was your real mother, dear; you sha'n't miss that. I've got my Sunday gown, and five francs will buy me a pair of new shoes; I can earn 'em before the day comes, I guess."
"I'm afraid you can't," said Beppa, laughing.
"Why, when's the wedding? Not for two or three weeks, I suppose?"
"It's day after to-morrow," answered Beppa. "Everything's bought, and all I want is the money to pay for 'em; I knew I could get it of you."
"Dear me! how quick! And these shoes are really too bad; they're clear wore out, and all the cleaning in the world won't make 'em decent."
"Well, Denza, why do you want to come? You don't know any of Giuseppe's family. To tell the truth, I never supposed you'd care about coming, and the table's all planned out for (at Giuseppe's sister's), and there ain't no place for you."
"And you didn't have one saved?"
"I never thought you'd care to come. You see they're different, they're all well off, and you don't like people who are well off – who wear nice clothes. You never wanted us to have nice clothes, and you like to go barefoot."
"No, I don't!" said Prudence.
"'Tany rate, one would think you did; you always go so in summer. But even if you had new shoes, none of your clothes would be good enough; that bonnet, now – "
"My bonnet? Surely my bonnet's good?" said the New England woman; her voice faltered, she was struck on a tender point.
"Well, people laugh at it," answered Beppa, composedly.
They had now reached the house. "You go in," said Prudence; "I'll come presently."
She went round to the wood-shed, unstrapped her basket, and set it down; then she climbed up on the barrel, removed the hay, and took out her work-box. Emptying its contents into her handkerchief, she descended, and, standing there, counted the sum – twenty-seven francs, thirty centimes. "'Twon't be any too much; she don't want to shame 'em." She made a package of the money with a piece of brown paper, and, entering the kitchen, she slipped it unobserved into Beppa's hand.
"Seems to me," announced Granmar from the bed, "that when a girl comes to tell her own precious Granmar of her wedding, she ought in decency to be offered a bite of something to eat. Any one but Denza would think so. Not that it's anything to me."
"Very well, what will you have?" asked Prudence, wearily. Freed from her bonnet and shawl, it could be seen that her once strong figure was much bent; her fingers had grown knotted, enlarged at the joints, and clumsy; years of toil had not aged her so much as these recent nights – such long nights! – of cruel rheumatic pain.
Granmar,
