"
I looked along the road towards them, then up at her again.
I remembered afterwards that though she spoke so cheerfully of the
mountains, her gaze had turned from them, to travel back across the
plain.
"A little while!" she went on. "We must wait a little while to
recover our strength. But there are friends yonder, to help us."
"Friends?" I echoed, wondering that I possessed any.
"You must leave all talk to me," she commanded; "and, if you are
rested, we ought not to sit idling here." She helped the driver to
lift me back into the waggon, where, as it moved on, she seated
herself in the straw and took my hand. All her shyness had gone,
with all her sullenness.
"There is a farm," began she, "a bare twelve leagues from here, says
the waggoner, who knows it. I carry a letter to the farmer from his
brother, who is the parish priest of Trecate, and a good man.
He says that his brother, too, is a good man, and will show us
kindness for his sake, because the farm once belonged to my friend,
as the elder, until he gave it up to follow God. The pair have not
met since twenty years; for Trecate lies not far from Milan, and the
farm is deep in the mountains, above a village called Domodossola,
where the folk are no travellers.
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