zled him. They understood
each other. Even her mother had said that they seemed to be in sympathy.
And that was true. Difference of rank need not, indeed cannot, destroy
the magic chain if it exists, cannot prevent its links from being
forged. She knew that her mother was in sympathy with Gaspare, and
Gaspare with her mother. So there was no reason why she should not be in
sympathy with Ruffo.

If he were here to-night she would begin at once to talk to him about
the sea. But of course he would never come at night to the islet.

Vere knew that the Neapolitan fishermen usually keep each to his own
special branch of the common profession. By this time of night, no
doubt, Ruffo was in his home at the Mergellina, sitting in the midst of
his family, or was strolling with lively companions of his own age, or,
perhaps, was fast asleep in bed.

Vere felt that it would be horrible to go to bed on such a night, to
shut herself in from the moon and the sea. The fishermen who slept in
the shelter of the Saint's Pool were enviable. They had the stars above
them, the waters about them, the gentle winds to caress them as they lay
in the very midst of romance.

She wondered whether there were any boats in the Saint's Pool to-night.
She had not been to see. A few steps and she could look over. She got up
and went back to the bridge, treading softly because she was thinking of
repose. There she stopped and looked down. She saw two boats on the far
side of the Pool almost at the feet of the Saint. The men in them must
be lying down, for Vere could see only the boats, looking black, and
filled with a confused blackness--of sails probably, and sleeping men.
The rest of the pool was empty, part of it bright with the radiance of
the moon, part of it shading away to the mysterious dimness of still
water at night under the lee of cliffs.

For some time the girl stood, watching. Just at that moment her active
brain almost ceased to work, stilled by the reverie that is born of
certain night visions. Without these motionless boats the Pool of the
Saint would have been calm. With them, its stillness seemed almost
ineffably profound. The hint of life bound in the cores of sleep,
prisoner to rest, deepened Nature's impression and sent Vere into
reverie. There were no trees here. No birds sang, for although it was
the month of the nightingales, none ever came to sing to San Francesco.
No insects chirped or hummed. All was stark and almost fearful