visit of gratitude to the old chemist, and took him a basket of rare mushrooms, and told him that when the time came to gather herbs she would not forget her promise.
'You have a face that remembers,' said the old man, pleased.
'How can anyone forget?' said Musa. It was that which seemed to her strange. Neither benefit nor wrong would have been ever written in sand with her. Though he had been dying before her, never would she have forgiven Zirlo.
'Did the sick man recover?' the old chemist asked.
'Yes; it was your cordials that saved him. That is why I came now to thank you.'
'And does he marry you, this springtime?' said the old man, with good-humoured pleasantry.
'Ah, no!' cried Musa quickly, with a colour deep as the dark winter rose on her face.
She went out of his pharmacy without bidding him good-day. The thoughtless question had gone like a knife into her heart.
That was what Joconda had meant when
