"Alessandro Assis. Majella Fa--" No more could be
read. The name meant nothing to Father Gaspara. "Clearly an
Indian name," he said to himself; "yet she seemed superior in every
way. I wonder where she got it."
The winter wore along quietly in San Pasquale. The delicious soft
rains set in early, promising a good grain year. It seemed a pity not
to get in as much wheat as possible; and all the San Pasquale
people went early to ploughing new fields,-- all but Alessandro.
"If I reap all I have, I will thank the saints," he said. "I will plough
no more land for the robbers." But after his fields were all planted,
and the beneficent rains still kept on, and the hills all along the
valley wall began to turn green earlier than ever before was
known, he said to Ramona one morning, "I think I will make one
more field of wheat. There will be a great yield this year. Maybe
we will be left unmolested till the harvest is over."
"Oh, yes, and for many more harvests, dear Alessandro!" said
Ramona, cheerily. "You are always looking on the black side."
"There is no other but the black side, Majella," he replied.
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