The Minetti family had fared as had the others, neither better nor worse,
and though one corner of the wall of the modest home had been torn away
in an explosion, the statue of the Virgin remained as if to protect from
further harm. No news had come from Giovanni since his return to the front,
over six months before, and Luisa, dry-eyed but worn and racked with
anxiety, worked far into the night on bandages for the wounded. Maria,
in common with others of her age, had lost the fresh prettiness that,
by right, belongs to youth, and her form was bent by work and her face
furrowed by lines of apprehension.
Of Chico nothing had been heard since the morning, months before, when his
master had left him in the office of the War Department. One's heart ached
for the faithful little mate, as she brooded forlornly on the window ledge,
refusing to pay the slightest heed to any bold fellow who dared make
overtures to her.
His bird was much in Andrea's thoughts as he paced back and forth each
night upon his beat and, gazing into the sky in his lookout for aeroplanes,
he would strain his eyes for a speck that might resolve itself into Chico's
wings.
Possibly, he reasoned, the bird had not yet been made use of. Perhaps--and
at the thought, his heart would almost fail him--perhaps, it might even be
that he had been entrusted with some message, but had failed to reach his
destination.
To the boy's other duties had been added that of watching the nest.
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