She worried for her father in Mantua, 28 hoping that he was still alive. There was absolute quiet. “Oh, Lord!” she said, discovering what she was up to, and dropped lightly from the fence upon the turf and went on her way toward the crest. It was high afternoon, there was no great throng of footpassengers, and many an eye from omnibus and pavement rested gratefully on her fresh, trim presence as she passed young and erect, with the light of determination shining through the quiet self-possession of her face. Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth.
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