e silver thread of light slipped down those far
Apennine hills of home and touched the dome of old Saint Peter's. She
felt far away and lonely . . . and deliciously sad and subtly expectant.
. . .

"'O Sole mio----"

And as she sang, with her eyes on the far hills, her ears caught the
whir of wheels on the road below, and all her nerves tightened like
wires and hummed with the charged currents.

Out of the dark she conjured a tall young figure advancing . . . a
figure topped by short-cut curly brown hair . . . a figure with eyes of
incredible brightness. . . .

If he would only come now and find her like this, singing. . . .

It was so exquisite a hope that her heart pleaded for it.

But the wheels went on.

"But he will come," she thought swiftly, to cover the pang of that
expiring hope. "He will come soon. He said so. And perhaps again it will
be like this and he will find me here----"

"'O Sole mio----"

And only Johnny Byrd, staring steadily through the dusk, discerned that
there were tears in her eyes.

CHAPTER IV

RI-RI SINGS AGAIN

She told herself that she was foolish to hope for him so soon. Of course
he could not follow at once. He could not leave New York. He had work to
be done. She must not begin to hope until the week-end at least.

But though she talked to herself so wisely, she hoped with every breath
she drew. She was accustomed to Italian precipitancy--and nothing in
Barry Elder suggested delay. If he came, he would come while his memory
of her was fresh.

It would be either here or York Harbor. Either herself or that girl with
the blue eyes. If he really wanted to see her at all, if he had any
memory of their dance, any interest in the newness of her, then he would
come soon.

And so through Maria Angelina's days ran a fever of expectancy.

At first it ran high. The honk of a motor horn, the reverberation of
wheels upon the bridge, the slam of a door and the flurry of steps in
the hall set up that instant, tumultuous commotion.

At any moment, she felt, Barry Elder might arrive. Every morning her
pulses confessed that he might come that day; every night her courage
insisted that the next morning would bring him.

And as the days passed the expectancy increased. It grew acute. It grew
painful. The feeling, at every arrival, that he might be there gave her
a tight pinch of suspense, a hammering racket of pulse-beats--succeeded
by an empty, sickening, sliding-down-to-nothi