tra came saucily
toward him as he was escaping.

"The Lady Laura hath charged me to ask the Signor Marcantonio whether
the garlands be disposed according to his liking."

She swept him a mocking reverence, so full of grace and coquetry that
the maidens all flocked back from their hiding-places to see how the
young signor would receive it.

"I know not which pleaseth me best," he answered lightly; "the grace of
the garlands, or the grace of the dance, or the grace of the _damigelle_
who have so wrought for the beauty of this fete. Nay, I may not enter,
for the Lady Laura will await my coming."

"Is this day then so full of gravity that one may not steal a moment to
dance at one's own fete, Signer Consigliere?" she retorted, mockingly.

But the Lady Laura herself was coming toward them, with slow, stately
steps, hiding her impatience--for the morning had seemed long.

At sight of her Marcantonio bent his knee with the knightly homage still
in vogue, and gave his hand to conduct her to her boudoir.

"Signer Consigliere,"--she began, with a stately congratulation, when
they were quite alone in her own boudoir; she had been planning, during
the long morning, a speech that should be of a dignity to suit so great
an occasion, but the words died away upon her lips; for once she forgot
Venice and the Ca' Giustiniani, and the mother was uppermost. She folded
her arms about him closely, and rested her head upon his shoulder in
delicious abandon.

"Marco, my boy!" she murmured.

His heart overflowed to her in unaccustomed endearments, so rarely did
she express any emotion, and to-day the rebound from the morning's
repression filled him with hope and gladness. All fear of winning her
aid was lifted. "_Madre mia_!" he cried, his face radiant with
happiness.

"This day is not as other days," she said, half in apology for her
weakness, as she recovered herself.

"I have a gift for thee, madre mia; let me bring it."

"I need no gift, Marco; for now hast thou everything before thee--every
honor that Venice may offer to a Venetian of the Venetians! Forget it
not, my Marco."

But he had already flown from her, with impatient, lover's footsteps.
Now that the moment had come he could not wait.

"Mother!" he cried, with shining eyes, as he placed the costly case upon
a table and drew her gently toward it.

She stood in mute astonishment before the faultless gift, this perfect
bit of Beroviero crystal,--opalesque and lucent,