And it was true. In the old country, where could she have gotten money when she wanted it? Sitting in the train, safe now from the city, Umbertina realized the great truth of American practicality, and decided again that sentimentality would have no room in her life in this country; what was done was done, and no good would come of looking back like a Cristina Muzzi who was always crying for the past.

Her Rocco was now of the past.

He had died before he was three months old, on a hot August day, and a white ribbon had gone up on their door. But there was no need for Umbertina to drape her gold earrings in black as the women did in mourning, for hers had long ago been sold for medicine.

As Umbertina looked from the train window and saw the buildings of the city recede behind her, she thought of how she had lived two years in New York and had never known till now its size or shape or the look of it except for those few blocks around Bleecker Street. As she saw its extent she thought, So many people packed in those buildings. What have they found there that keeps them tied to so much stone and cement? What are their lives?

Leaving, she felt again the stirring of hope. She was a woman of faith and she had seen in Rocco’s death a heavy penance exacted, just as she had seen absolution in the miracle that had taken place on the day of the baby’s burial, when her two older boys had come back to the room with bunches of daisies in their hands.

“Margherite!” she had exclaimed in a sudden vision of the spring hillsides of Castagna, where daisies burst from the earth with the new grain and red poppies.

“A policeman gave them out,” Giacomo told her. “At the station on Mulberry Street he’s giving flowers to everyone. They come from people in the country who wanted the city children to have some flowers.”

A smile came to Umbertina’s pressed lips. God was giving her a sign: He would not abandon them after all, but sent the fruit of His good world as proof that He saw and cared for them.

It was as if a window had opened and let in reviving air; no food or clothing—the usual gifts of charity—could have done more for Umbertina than the sight of field flowers her eyes had been without for so long.

And then irony sent a final message. Ranucci’s store was sold and the proceeds were divided among those whose savings had been stolen. When this unexpected windfall came upon them, Umbertina sought out Anna Giordani and said, “Let me buy back my spread. Tell the American lady it was only desperation that made me sell it. Tell her my son died but the spread will go to my first daughter for her own marriage bed.”

“I will try, signora.”