40 [July 1, 1878.] TINA. [Conducted by
of all this to my brother. When we get back to the mountains I will let him know it all."
"You think he would not agree; you believe him to be a fool!" cried Pietro, with indignation.
"I do not say that," I said wistfully; "but I have a notion that, if he knew it, he might spoil our plans."
And Pietro consented to be silent on our compact.
The following day Donato's cure began. The doctors understood his case, and promised to make him well; and Pietro paid their fees. Donato accepted the money as a loan, and was full of astonishment at the stranger's generous kindness.
Day after day, as I sat by his side, he talked to me of the efforts he would make to pay off the debt. Sometimes the thought of it overcast his cheerfulness, and then I found it hard not to tell him the truth; but I felt instinctively that he would be still more troubled at knowing I had been put in such a strait. For how could I pretend to him that Pietro was the husband of my choice?
Weeks passed; the doctors did their work, and I sang on the Corso every evening. I worked at wood-carving in the daytime, and altogether earned enough money for our support; accepting nothing from Pietro but the fees, which had been the matter of our agreement. Donato, feeling himself grow daily stronger, began to talk joyfully of our return. Sometimes he mentioned Elisabetta, but not so often as he used to do; and always with a look of anxiety on his face.
"He begins to fear that she has already deserted him," I thought; and now that he was looking like our Donato of old, I felt less sure that there was cause for his fears.
"Have courage, my brother!" I said, looking up brightly from my carving. "Your body is getting well; do not let your heart now get sick!"
He gave me a long grave look, which made me tremble all over, fearing he had guessed my secret; but he only said:
"I wonder did any woman ever do more for any man, than you have done for me, my Tina! You have wasted your strength, your beauty"
"My beauty!" I cried aghast. Never had I heard such a thing mentioned before.
"Yes," he persisted, "your beauty. However, it is not gone yet, carina. Your eyes are too large, and your cheeks are too white; but the mountain air will bring back your roses."
I smiled; while nevertheless a great stroke of sorrow clove my heart. I thought of our last days together journeying back, and of my return in my loneliness with Pietro. A little while longer, and my way would lie no more among the heights.
More weeks flew, Donato walked without crutches, and the ruddy bronze had returned to his face. The weather was deliciously cool, though winter had not yet set in; and we began to talk freely of our return to the mountains.
At last, one morning we set out, and Pietro walked a good part of the way with us. He had brought me, as usual, some roses, and looked pained and saddened when we bade him farewell.
"Remember your promise, little Tina," he said, at parting.
"What does he mean by your promise?" asked Donato, as we walked along, he holding me by the hand, like a child that had tired itself more than enough, and had now to be led tenderly home.
"I promised to be glad to see him," I said, "when he comes to pay a visit to our mountains."
Donato flushed and frowned; and I was vexed at not having hit on something better to say. I feared he might think Pietro was uneasy about his money.
"He is not at all anxious about the debt, however," I added. "He knows well that that will be paid."
"Of course he does," said Donato, "and I was not thinking about the debt. Tina, you are not thinking of marrying him?"
"Why should he wish me to marry him?” I said sadly. And though this was an evasion, it was also a question I was weary of asking myself. "Don't you see that I am coming back to the mountains?"
"Yes, you are coming back,” he said, holding my hand more tightly.
As we went along I was no longer gay and angry by turns, as formerly, only spiritless and tired. Donato was now so strong and well, that he did not need my cheering; and when my songs died in my throat, he would play on the zither in his old merry fashion, shouting out his roundelays to the rocks and pines. He tenderly cared for me, as a nurse cares for a child, carrying me over the rough places, and seeking a draught of milk for me at
