e girl swung herself on the table edge,
balancing and swinging her feet; looking up at him from under her
lashes and laughing.

"Shall I make a good comrade, Monsieur Velasco? What do you think?"

He leaned over the table towards her. His eyes were bright and eager,
searching her face, the dimples that came and went in her cheeks, her
soft, white throat, bare under the collarless jacket; the lips parted,
and red, and arched; the rings of her hair, shining like gold.

"Kaya," he whispered hoarsely, "I never saw you like this before. My
little comrade, my friend, my-- We will tramp together, you and I--all
the way to the frontier. They will never suspect us, never! The
Stradivarius shall earn our bread, and if you are ill, or weary, I will
carry you in my arms. In the market-places I will play for the
peasants to dance, and you--you, Kaya--ah, what will you do?"

He laughed softly to himself and began teasing her, half gayly, half
tenderly, with his face close to hers, the sleeve of his jacket
brushing her arm.

"What will you do, Kaya? Look at me! Your cheek is red like a rose;
your eyes are like stars. Don't turn them away. Lift the fringe of
those lashes and look at me, Kaya. Will you pass the cap for the
pennies?--You will have to doff it because you are a boy; and you must
do something because you are a gypsey. Will you pass the cap for the
peasants to pay?"

He held the velveteen cap in his hands, playing with it, caressing it,
watching her. "Look at me, Kaya!"

She flushed and drew back, her heart beating in little throbs under the
vest. Suddenly she turned and looked at him squarely. It was strange,
whenever their eyes met, like a thrill, a shock, an ecstasy; and then a
slow returning to consciousness as after a blow.

All at once, she drooped her lashes and began to trill, softly,
faintly, like a bird, the tones clear, and sweet, and high; and as she
sang, she glanced at him under her lashes, with her head on one side.
The voice pulsed and grew in her throat, swelling out; then she
softened it quickly with a look over her shoulder, half fearfully, and
again it soared to a high note, trilling, lingering and dropping at
last.

Her mouth scarcely opened. The sound seemed to come through the arch
of her lips, every note pure, and sweet, and soft like a breath.
Velasco bent over entranced.

"How you sing!" he cried, "Like some beautiful bird! In Italy, on the
shores of the lakes, I have