"Yes, when I'm grown up and have six onze a year wages. Mara knows nothing about it."
"Why, have n't you told her?"
Jeli shook his head and reflected. Then he opened his hoard and unfolded the paper which bore the written name.
"It must be that it says 'Mara'; Don Gesualdo, the campiere,[1] has read it; and fra Cola, when he came down here begging for beans."
"He who knows how to write," he went on saying, "is like one who preserves words in his tinder-box and can carry them in his pocket, and even send them this way and that."
"Now what are you going to do with that piece of paper that you can't read?" asked Alfonso.
Jeli shrugged his shoulders, but kept on carefully folding his written leaf to put away in his heap of odds and ends.
He had known la Mara ever since she
- ↑ Field guard.
