After breakfast, on the sixth of November Franco took his great gardening-shears and proceeded as usual, to the extermination of all dry leaves and branches on the terrace and in the little garden. The great beauty and deep peace of the hour went to the heart. Not a leaf stirred; the air from the west was most pure and crystalline; on the east the hills between Osteno and Porlezza were fading against a background of light mist; the house was glorious with the sun and the tremulous reflections from the lake; but though the sun was still very hot, the chrysanthemums in the little garden, the olives and laurels along the coast--more plainly visible now among the reddening, falling leaves--a certain secret freshness in the air, scented with _olea fragrans_, the absence of all wind, the vaporous mountains of the Lake of Como, white with snow, all said, with one melancholy accord, that the sweet season was dying. When he had exterminated the withered brushwood Franco proposed to his wife that they should go to Casarico in their boat, and return the two first volumes of the _Mystères du Peuple_ which they had eagerly devoured in a few days, to their friend Gilardoni, and borrow the next volume from him. They decided to start after lunch, when Maria should have gone to bed. But before Maria had been put to bed Barborin Pasotti appeared, all out of breath, her bonnet and mantle askew. She had come up from the garden-gate, and now stopped on the threshold of the hall. It was the first time she had been to see them since the search. Upon catching sight of her friends she clasped her hands, and kept repeating in a low tone: "Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord!" Then she flung herself upon Luisa and covered her with kisses.
"My dear girl! My dear girl!" she exclaimed. She would have liked to treat Franco in the same way, but Franco was not favourable to this sort of emotion, and his expression was not encouraging, so the poor woman had to be satisfied with taking both his hands and shaking them heartily. "My dear Don Franco! My dear Don Franco!" Finally she gathered Maria into her arms, but the child planted her two little hands upon Barborin's chest, her face wearing an expression similar to her father's. "I am old, am I not? And ugly? You don't like me? Well, never mind, never mind!" And she fell to kissing the child's arms and shoulders humbly, not daring to brave the sour little face. Then she told her friends she had brought them a piece of good news, and her eyes sparkled at the pleasant mystery. The Marchesa had written to Pasotti, and one passage in the letter Barborin had committed to memory. "It was with the deepest regret (deepest regret, those were the very words) that I learned of the sad affair at Oria ... at Oria ... (wait a moment) the sad affair at Oria ... (ah!) and although my grandson is most undeserving (wait! ... have patience!) I trust that it may have no unpleasant consequences." The passage did not produce any great effect. Luisa frowned and said nothing. Franco glanced at his wife, and did not dare to utter the favourable comment he had on his lips, but not in his heart. Poor Barborin, who had taken advantage of her husband's absence at Lugano to run to her friends with this sugar-plum, was deeply mortified, and after gazing ruefully from Luisa to Franco, ended by pulling a real sugar-plum from her pocket, and offering it to Maria. Then, having made out that the Maironis wanted to go away in the boat, and longing to be allowed to stay with Maria a little while, she begged and entreated so hard that they finally started, leaving orders with Veronica to put the child to bed a little later.