her consciousness.

It was quite true, as she declared, that neither she nor Pauline had
ever succeeded in attaining to the easy and spontaneous footing with him
which had been established with Vittorio from the very first. Vittorio
was both gay and communicative, and none the less a perfect servant for
that. He would row by the hour, without volunteering a remark, yet a
friendly word never failed to elicit the flashing smile and ready
response which conferred such grace upon him. A little diplomacy on the
part of the girls had effected an entrance to his house, and to his
confidence. They knew that he had married his Ninetta without a dowry
because "she pleased him," and that their eldest child had died of a
fever; that Constanza was the scholar of the family, and Giulia the
caretaker. They knew that the eldest boy was named for one of his
grandfathers, and the second for the other; that the third boy,
Vittorio, wanted to be a soldier, and that the _piccolo Giovanni_ was
going to be the best gondolier of them all. They knew why a light was
always burning, day and night, before the little image of the Madonna on
the stairs, and why the whole family had made a pious pilgrimage to the
church of San Antonio at Padua the previous year. They knew how severe
the father of Vittorio and Nanni had been to his boys; how he had, on
more than one occasion, pitched them overboard, straight into the canal,
yet how he was, nevertheless, "a just man!" They were acquainted with
Vittorio's harmlessly revolutionary views, and with his reasons for not
voting. They were familiar with his simple creed, to hope all things and
leave the rest to the Madonna. And of Nanni's experiences and beliefs
they knew nothing.

During the week when he had served them as gondolier he had never
volunteered a remark and he had given only the shortest possible
answers when addressed. Yet upon the mind of May, at least, his
personality had made a strong impression. His tall, poorly clad figure,
swaying at the oar, his sombre, almost tragic gaze, fixed straight
before him, his deep, grave voice, not more musical, but more perfectly
modulated than his brother's,--all went to form an enigma and an appeal.

Since his release from their service they had met him several times,
rowing quite by himself in his shabby old gondola. Once they had come
upon him out by St. George in the Seaweed where the loveliest of all the
parasol Madonnas keeps guard over the still lag