In this little cottage lived an old
basketmaker named Janiculo, with his only daughter Griselda, the child
of his old age. He had also a son Laureo, who was a poor scholar in
Padua, studying hard to get money enough to make himself a priest. But
Laureo was nearly always away, and Griselda took care of her father,
kept the house, and wove baskets with her slender, nimble fingers, to
sell in the town close by.
I cannot tell you in words of the loveliness of Griselda. She was as
pure as the dew which gemmed the forest, as sweet-voiced as the birds,
as light-footed and timid as the deer which started at the hunters'
coming. Then her heart was so tender and good, she was so meek and
gentle, that to love her was of itself a blessing; and to be in her
presence was like basking in the beams of the May sun.
This morning she and her father sat under the tree by their cottage
door, as the hunting-train passed by. They were weaving baskets; and,
as they worked, they sang together.
As the hunting party swept by, Griselda looked up, and noted again, as
had happened several mornings before, that the penetrating eyes of the
handsome duke were fixed on her.
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