'Delfina,' she repeated, louder than before, in a sort of terror.
In the pause that followed her cry the songs of the two waters seemed to
make the silence deeper.
'Delfina!'
There was a rustling in the leaves as if from the passage of a little
kid, and the child came bounding through the laurel thicket, carrying in
her hands her straw hat heaped to the brim with little red berries she
had gathered. Her exertions and the running had brought a deep flush to
her cheeks, broken twigs were sticking in her frock, and some leaves
hung trembling in the meshes of her ruffled hair.
'Oh mamma, come quick--do come with me!'
She began dragging her mother away--'There is a perfect forest over
there--heaps and heaps of berries! Come with me, mamma, do come--'
'No, darling, I would rather not--it is getting late.'
'Oh, do come!'
'But it is late.'
'Come! Come!'
Donna Maria was obliged to give in and let herself be dragged along by
the hand.
'There is a way of reaching the arbutus wood without going through the
thicket,' said Andrea.
'Do you hear, Delfina? There is a better way.'
'No, mamma, I want you to come with me.'
Delfina pulled her mother along towards the sea through the laurel
thicket, and Andrea followed, content to be able to gaze without
restraint at the beloved figure in front of him, to devour her with his
eyes, to study her every movement and her rhythmic walk, interrupted
every moment by the irregularities of the path, the obstacles presented
by the trees and their interlaced branches.
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