with a half-malicious drollery in her dark
eyes.

'Then I 'd have hated him all the more--hated _you_, perhaps, too.'

'_Poverino!_' said she, with a sigh which ended in a laugh.

And now they walked along, side by side, while she told Gerald all about
her life, her companions, their humours, their habits, and their ways.
She liked Babbo. He was kind-hearted and affectionate; but Donna Gaetana
was all that was cruel and unfeeling. Chico, indeed, had always resisted
her tyranny, and she counselled Gerald to do the same. 'As for me,'
added she sorrowfully, 'I am but a girl, and must bear with her.'

'But I'll stand by you, Marietta,' cried Gerald boldly. 'We 'll see if
the world won't go better with each of us as we meet it thus,' and he
drew her arm around his waist, while he clasped hers with his own.

And what a happy hour was that as thus they rambled along under the
leafy shade, no sound but the wild wood-pigeon's cry to break the
silence! for often they were silent with thoughts deeper than words
could render. She, full of that future where Gerald was to be the
companion of all her games; he, too, ranging in fancy over adventures
wherein, as her protector and defender, he confronted perils
unceasingly. Then he bethought him how strangely destiny should have
thus brought them together, two forsaken, friendless creatures.

One falls in love at eighteen, at eight-and-twenty, and at
eight-and-forty, with very different reasons for the process. Silky
hair, and long eye-lashes, and pearly teeth get jostled as we go on
through life, with thoughts of good connections and the three per
cents., and a strange compromise is effected between inclination and
self-interest. To know, however, the true ecstasy of the passion, to
feel it in all its impulsive force, and in the full strength of its
irresponsibility, be very young and very poor--young enough to doubt of
nothing, not even yourself; poor enough to despise riches most heartily.

Gerald was young and poor. His mind, charged with deep stores of
sentiment, was eagerly seeking where to invest its wealth. The tender
pathos of St. Pierre, the more dangerous promptings of Rousseau, were in
his heart, and he yearned for one to whom he could speak of the feelings
that struggled within him. As for Marietta, to listen to him was
ecstasy. The glowing language of poetry, its brilliant imagery, its
melting softness, came upon her like refreshing rain upon some arid
soil, scorche