Pia, the spring smiles on the tender gra.s.s, Surely the sun is brighter where he stood.

PIA.

'Tis a glaring sun for twilight.

LISETTA.

Pia, 'twill be the gentlest of all eves.

Surely G.o.d sent the brother for my need, To give His peace.

PIA.

Aye, and my old heart ripens at his words Like apples in the sun. 'Tis a sweet monk.

LISETTA.

Who is he, think you?

PIA.

One of the Little Poor Men, by his brown.

They are too thin, these brothers, and do lack Stomach for life. [_She returns to the peas._] Mark, oh, 'tis merry now To see the little beggars from their pods Popping like schoolboys from their shoes in spring!

The season hath been so fine and dry this year My peas are smaller and must have more work.

Well, well, labor is good, and things made scarce Are better loved.

LISETTA.

Pia, thou art a good woman.

PIA.

Child, do not make me cry. 'Tis thy pure heart Deceives thee. Stubborn I am and full of sloth, And a wicked old thing.

LISETTA.

I would not grieve thee. Pia, 'twas my love That sees thy goodness better than thyself.

PIA [_hanging the kettle of peas over the coals_].

Lisetta, I see the sky at the chimney top.

[_PIA begins to sing in her sweet, old, cracked voice, as she stirs the pot_:]

_Firefly, firefly, come from the shadows, Twilight is falling over the meadows, Burn, little garden lamps, flicker and shimmer, Shine, little meadow stars, twinkle and glimmer.

Firefly, firefly, shine, shine!_

LISETTA.

Pia.

PIA.

Yes.

LISETTA.

Pia, come near me here. [_PIA kneels by the bed._] Can you not see How much I love? If I could only speak To him or he to me, Guido, my love!

PIA.

Surely he is beside thee often.

LISETTA.

His hand is near, but not his heart.

PIA.

Nay, child, 'tis Guido's way. He speaks but little.

When I speak to him look what he says, "Yes, good Pia," 'tis not much.

LISETTA.

Aye, tell me not. On winter nights I lay Hearing the tree limbs rattle there like hail, And from the corner eaves the dropping rain Like big dogs lapping all about--and he Spoke not to me. He sat beside his taper But never a line wrote down. Once I had words, Bright dreams, that shone through him, the same fire shone Through both, his songs were mine!

PIA.

Yes, thine--rest thee, rest thee!

LISETTA.

But more his, Pia, more his!

PIA.

Aye, his. Wilt thou not eat the broth?

LISETTA.

Not now, good Pia, 'tis not for food I die.

'Tis not for food.

PIA.

Yet thou must eat.

LISETTA.