-it would be a fine joke if
my singer turned out to be that irregular person."

He fell to reading, but it was not long before he yawned. He shied the
book into a corner, drew off his boots and cast them into the hall. A
moment after his valet appeared, gathered up the boots, tucked them
under his arm, and waited.

"I want nothing, Giovanni. I have only been around to the post-office."

"I heard the door open and close four times, signore."

"It was I each time. If this fog does not change into rain, I shall want
my riding-breeches to-morrow morning."

"It is always raining here," Giovanni remarked sadly.

"Not always; there are pleasant days in the spring and summer. It is
because this is not Italy. The Hollander wonders how any reasonable
being can dwell in a country where they do not drink gin. It's home,
Giovanni; rain pelts you from a different angle here. There is nothing
more; you may go. It is two o'clock, and you are dead for sleep."

But Giovanni only bowed; he did not stir.

"Well?" inquired his master.

"It is seven years now, signore."

"So it is; seven this coming April."

"I am now a citizen of this country; I obey its laws; I vote."

"Yes, Giovanni, you are an American citizen, and you should be proud of
it."

Giovanni smiled. "I may return to my good Italia without danger."

"That depends. If you do not run across any official who recognizes
you."

Giovanni spread his hands. "Official memory seldom lasts so long as
seven years. The signore has crossed four times in this period."

"I would gladly have taken you each time, as you know."

"Oh, yes! But in two or three years the police do not forget. In seven
it is different."

"Ah!" Hillard was beginning to understand the trend of this
conversation. "So, then, you wish to return?"

"Yes, signore. I have saved a little money," modestly.

"A little?" Hillard laughed. "For seven years you have received fifty
American dollars every month, and out of it you do not spend as many
copper centesimi. I am certain that you have twenty thousand lire tucked
away in your stocking; a fortune!"

"I buy the blacking for the signore's boots," gravely.

Hillard saw the twinkle in the black eyes. "I have never," he said
truthfully, "asked you to black my boots."

"Penance, signore, penance for my sins; and I am not without gratitude.
There was a time when I had rather cut off a hand than black a boot; but
all that is changed. We of the Sabine Hill