hat she never attempted to oppose her
daughter, and rarely tried to oppose any one else. She was quite
insensible to Beatrice's occasional reproaches concerning her
indolence, and Beatrice had so much sense, in spite of her small
caprices and whims, that it was always safe to let her have her own way.
The consequence was that difficulties rarely arose between the two.

Beatrice smiled carelessly at the affectionate speech. She knew its
exact value, but was not inclined to depreciate it in her own
estimation. Just then she would rather have been left alone with her
mother than with any one else, unless she could be left quite to
herself.

"You are always very good to me, mamma," she answered; "you let me have
my own way, and that is what I like best."

"Let you have it, carissima! You take it. But I am quite satisfied."

"After all, it saves you trouble," laughed Beatrice.

Just then San Miniato came back and was greatly relieved to see that
Beatrice's usual expression had returned, and to hear her careless,
tuneful laughter. In an incredibly short space of time the boat was
ready, the Marchesa was lifted in her chair and carried to it, and all
the party were aboard. The second boat, with its crew, was left to
bring home the paraphernalia, and Ruggiero cast off the mooring and
jumped upon the stern, as the men forward dipped their oars and began to
pull out of the little sheltered bay.

There he sat again, perched in his old place behind his master, the
latter's head close to his knee, holding the brass tiller in his hand.
It would be hard to say what he felt, but it was not what he had felt
before. It was all a dream, now, the past, the present and the future.
He had told Beatrice--Donna Beatrice Granmichele, the fine lady--that he
loved her, and she had not laughed in his face, nor insulted him, nor
cried out for help. She had told him that he was brave and strong. Yet
he knew that he had put forth all his strength and summoned all his
courage in the great effort to be silent, and had failed. But that
mattered little. He had got a hundred, a thousand times more kindness
than he would have dared to hope for, if he had ever dared to think of
saying what he had really said. He had been forced to what he had done,
as a strong man is forced struggling against odds to the brink of a
precipice, and he had found not death, but a strange new strength to
live. He had not found Heaven, but he had touched the gates of Paradi