Sicilian in its fervor, a sense of gratitude
such as the contadini have, although by many it is denied to them; a
quick and lively temper, but a disposition that responded to joy,
to brightness, to gayety, to sunlight, with a swiftness, almost a
fierceness, that was entirely un-English.

Her father had been the dancing Faun. She had not, could never have his
gift of thoughtlessness. For she had intellect, derived from Hermione,
and an old truthfulness that was certainly not Sicilian. Often there
were what Artois called "Northern Lights" in her sincerity. The strains
in her, united, made, he thought, a fascinating blend. But as yet she
was undeveloped--an interesting, a charming child, but only a child.
In many ways she was young for her age. Highly intelligent, she was
anything rather than "knowing." Her innocence was like clear water in a
spring. The graciousness of youth was hers to the full.

As Artois thought of it he was conscious, as of a new thing, of the
wonderful beauty of such innocent youth.

It was horrible to connect it with suffering. And yet that link in the
chain did exist. Vere had not something that surely she ought to have,
and, without consciously missing it, she must sometimes subtly, perhaps
vaguely, be aware that there was a lack in her life. Her mother gave her
great love. But she was not to her mother what a son would have been.
And the love that is mingled with regret has surely something shadowy in
it.

Maurice Delarey had been as the embodiment of joy. It was strange that
from the fount of joy sorrow was thrown up. But so it was. From him
sorrow had come. From him sorrow might still come, even for Vere.

In the white and silent day Artois again felt the stirring of intuition,
as he had felt it long ago. But now he roused himself, and resolutely,
almost angrily, detached his mind from its excursions towards the
future.

"Do you often think of to-morrow?" he suddenly said to the boatman,
breaking from his silence.

"Signore?"

"Do you often wonder what is going to happen to-morrow, what you will
do, whether you will be happy or sad?"

The man threw up his head.

"No, Signore. Whatever comes is destiny. If I have food to-day it is
enough for me. Why should I bother about to-morrow's maccheroni?"

Artois smiled. The boat was close in now to the platform of stone that
projected beneath the wall of the Marina.

As he stepped out he gave the boatman a generous _buonamano_.

"You ar