remains of small, crab-like creatures
sticking to their sides. All this picturesqueness, and more besides, was
reflected in the placid water. On the one hand was the quay, with its
irregular row of houses done in delicious sun-baked colours, in front of
which women in sulphur shawls and children in variegated rags were
sunning themselves and passing the time of day. On the other side, a
tumble-down wall of brick, that once was red, rose out of the water in
such formless dilapidation that one could not tell where the reality
merged into the reflection; while masses of verdure from a hidden garden
tossed their heads above it, or tumbled over it as if enchanted to get a
glimpse of themselves in the dark, cool water below. A wooden bridge
spanned the canal, glassed perfectly in the still water, and somebody's
wash, hung out to dry at one end of the rustic railing, blended acceptably
in the quaint harmony of the picture.

Nanni had been rowing slowly, and just there, perceiving that the
attention of his passengers was arrested, he stayed his oar. A bird,
hidden somewhere among the foliage, in the garden, chose that moment for
making a melodious observation to his mate, while a somewhat timid and
tentative baby-voice from the quay lisped: "_Un soldino_," not with any
business intention but merely by way of practice. The whole thing was so
incredibly pretty that there was nothing to be said about it, and for a
number of seconds no one spoke.

Then May exclaimed: "I'm so afraid somebody will say something!" upon
which the others laughed, and instantly the oar was put in motion again,
the gondola gliding forward under the bridge and past other ruinous,
verdure-crowned walls.

"What a shame this man should not be a gondolier," May cried, returning
to the charge, with unabated interest. "It does seem as if we might
perhaps do something about it."

She glanced up at the grave face, half inclined to press the subject
further. The man was gazing straight over the prow of the gondola, not
more intent than his brother often was, yet the young girl felt abashed
and deterred from her purpose. If it were Vittorio, she told herself,
she might be sure that the dark features would break into a flashing
smile when she spoke to him. But this man could not be depended upon to
look pleased at any casual notice bestowed upon him. She wondered why;
she wondered why he was so different. Had he always been like that, or
was it his life of exile