But how is the riddle easier, for thinking Him away?
When at last she rose, it was to make quietly for the door opening on the _loggia_.
Still there, this radiant marvel of the world!--this pageant of rock and stream and forest, this pomp of shining cloud, this silky shimmer of the wheat, this sparkle of flowers in the grass; while human hearts break, and human lives fail, and the graveyard on the hill yonder packs closer and closer its rows of metal crosses and wreaths! Suddenly, from a patch of hayfield on the further side of the road, she heard a voice singing.

A young man, tall and well made, was mowing in a corner of the field.

The swathes fell fast before him: every movement spoke of an assured rejoicing strength.

He sang with the sharp stridency which is the rule in Italy--the words clear, the sounds nasal.
Gradually Eleanor made out that the song was the farewell of a maiden to her lover who is going for winter work to the Maremma.
The labourers go to Maremma-- Oh! 'tis long till the days of June, And my heart is all in a flutter Alone here, under the moon.
O moon!--all this anguish and sorrow! Thou know'st why I suffer so-- Oh! send him me back from Maremma, Where he goes, and I must not go! The man sang the little song carelessly, commonly, without a thought of the words, interrupting himself every now and then to sharpen his scythe, and then beginning again.

To Eleanor it seemed the natural voice of the morning; one more, echo of the cry of universal parting, now for a day, now for a season, now for ever--which fills the world.
* * * * * She was too restless to enjoy the _loggia_ and the view, too restless to go back to bed.