The next day and the next passed in much the same way. They danced and
sang in the villages to earn their bread, and then passed out again to
the highway, where there were sign-posts to guide them, or they could
ask directions from fellow travellers. One night they passed in an
olive orchard, under a spreading tree. Another was spent under the
protection of a wayside shrine.
When he awoke in the morning, Beppo found his sister kneeling before the
shrine. She turned a beaming face upon him as he opened his eyes.
"Oh, Beppo mio," she said, "I haven't forgotten once, and this is the
ninth day! I've made my novena! I'm almost sure the blessed Saint
Anthony means to get us to Padua this very day. If he does, I think I
shall die of joy."
"What would be the good of that?" Beppo inquired, practically. Then he
added, "Anyway, I think it'll be very mean if he doesn't, after all the
praying you've done, and all my thinking too."
They ate a hasty bite of bread beside the shrine, then trudged on, and,
before the morning was over, actually found themselves passing through
the beautiful gardens which surround the city of Padua. They entered it
from the east by the Porta di' Pontecorbo, walked a short distance along
a wide street, crossed a canal, and, turning to the left, saw rising
before them from a great open piazza the huge church of Saint Anthony of
Padua, crowned by its six domes and many spires. It was as if they had
known every inch of the way, so directly had they come.
The bells of the church were pealing joyfully, and the square was full
of people, all going toward the church, for it was the festa of Saint
Anthony, though the children did not know it.
Passers-by glanced curiously at the two queer, forlorn little figures,
but no one spoke to them, and they stood for a moment uncertain what to
do, or in what direction to go, when suddenly Beppina gave a shriek of
joy, and, springing forward, threw her arms about a tall, stern-looking
woman in a nurse's ruff and streamers who was hurrying toward the church
carrying an immense loaf of bread in her hand.
"Teresina!" screamed Beppina.
The woman looked at the child in blank astonishment, but it was not
until she saw Beppo that the light of recognition dawned in her face.
Then, dropping the bread and falling upon her knees, she engulfed both
ragged, dirty children in a wide embrace.
"Oh, thanks be to God, the blessed Virgin, and Saint Anthony, you are
found again!" she cried, her eyes streaming tears and her tongue prayers
of thanksgiving at the same time. "I was just on my way to offer this
bread at the shrine of the blessed Saint, and pray, as I have prayed
daily since you were lost, that you might be found again! And here
before I have even been to the church at all, the blessed Saint has
heard my prayers, and you rise up before me as if out of the ground. It
is a miracle! Ah, Madonna mia! what tears the Signora has wept for you!
And the Signore your father, he has not slept for seeking you! Come,
come--do not delay! We must send word to the villa at once that they
may come running to meet you even as his father met the prodigal son."
Her tongue ran so fast that the children had no chance to ask questions.
A crowd now gathered about them, and when Teresina had explained the
cause of the excitement and joy, sympathetic bystanders rushed to send
word to the villa, seven miles away, and to spread the good news that
the children of the Marchese Grifoni, for whom the police had been
searching every town in Italy for two months, had now appeared in Padua.
"It is not for nothing that Saint Anthony is the patron saint of all who
suffer loss," said the pious ones, and many a candle was gratefully
offered on his shrine that day.
When her joy had a little subsided, Teresina gazed with horror at the
Twins. They were indeed a terrifying spectacle. Ragged, thin,
encrusted with dirt, with their toes sticking through their worn-out
shoes, it is no wonder that she did not at once recognise the children
of the Marchese. Grasping them by the hands as if she would never again
let them go, Teresina hurried them toward the Hotel Due Croci Bianche,
which opened upon the square, followed by crowds of interested
spectators. The landlord himself, when the news reached him, came out
to greet the wanderers and conduct them to a room.
Teresina went with them, giving orders right and left as she flew down
the long corridor.
"It is for the Marchese Grifoni!" she cried to the bewildered servants,
as she hustled the children before her to the bath. "Bring soap, bring
towels, bring food, and for the love of Saint Anthony keep the wires hot
to the villa. Never mind the cost, for the lost is found. They will
reward you well. Tell them, for the love of Heaven, to bring clothes
for the Signorina and Don Beppo, and hurry, hurry, hurry!"
Then she shut the door upon her charges, and the process of purification
began. She rang the bell furiously a few moments later, and, opening
the door a crack, handed the servant who answered it a bundle, hastily
wrapped in newspaper.
"Their clothes," she said briefly. "The Marchesa must not see them.
Burn them at once!"
For one hour or more she scrubbed and shampooed, and all but boiled the
wanderers alive in her frantic efforts to get them clean before their
mother should be able to reach them.
At last a carriage, drawn by a pair of steaming black horses, dashed up
to the hotel, and the beautiful Marchesa, pale but radiant, sprang out
and, attended by the landlord himself, hurried to the room where her
lost ones waited to embrace her! Teresina opened the door, and,
stepping into the hall, left the mother and children together with no
human eye to see that meeting! Red-eyed herself, and wiping her nose
vigorously on her apron, she went down to tell the footman all the news,
and to get the bundle of clothes for the children, which in the haste
and excitement had been left in the carriage.
An hour later, the Marchesa and two very clean and happy children came
out of the hotel, followed by Teresina. The coachman, grinning, as
Teresina said, "like a cracked melon," greeted the children as if he
were an old friend, and the Marchesa, standing in her carriage,
scattered tips with a lavish hand. They drove away with the landlord
bowing from the doorway, and the crowd shouting vivas as long as the
carriage was in sight.
It was a long drive over beautiful, winding roadways to the villa, and
every inch of the way the Marchesa sat with her arms clasped about her
darlings telling them of their father, who was still in Florence
conducting the search, of the baby, who had six teeth and was fat as
butter, and hearing from them the tale of their adventures, while
Teresina beamed at them from the opposite seat.
At last they rounded a well-remembered curve in the road, and there,
shining down on them from the summit of a hill overlooking the village,
was their own white, vine-covered villa. The children shouted with joy
when they saw it, and Beppina threw a kiss.
Then they heard a great shouting down the road. All the village had
come out to greet the children of their beloved Marchesa. Old and
young, they swarmed about the carriage, shouting "Ben trovati," which
means "Welcome," and tossing flowers at the feet of the returned
travellers. Ah, what a happy time it was!
At last the carriage stood before the loggia of the villa, and when his
old dog, barking with joy, came bounding out to meet them, Beppo, who
had been dry-eyed and brave through all the dreadful weeks, buried his
head in Tonio's shaggy fur and gave way to tears.
After the baby had been kissed, and the servants greeted, and all the
dear, familiar places visited once more, it was time for supper, and,
oh, what a supper it was! The cook, the moment the wonderful news had
reached the villa, had flown to the kitchen, and there she had cooked
all their favourite dishes. There were artichokes for Beppina, and
_stufato_ for Beppo, and a cake as soft and light as thistle-down for
dessert. In the evening they received a telegram of welcome from their
dear Babbo in Florence, for the good news had been flashed across the
wires to him and all the servants in the Grifoni palace were rejoicing
too.
When bedtime came, instead of lying down upon straw, or a husk mattress,
the Twins had their own mother to tuck them in their own white beds in
their own dear, clean rooms, and then to sing them to sleep as she had
done when they were little, little children.
Long after they were safe in dreamland, the Marchesa lingered beside
their beds, and then, throwing herself upon her knees before the image
of the Madonna in her own room, she poured out her grateful heart in
thanksgiving to that other Mother who had lived and suffered too.