came not. I spoke of the sheep that had been my care, of the
books I had read on the heather, and of all the mystery and the sadness
of our life.

Then we fell silent, and the shadows of the sadness I had left behind me
seemed to shut out the kindly stars. I would have taken my arm away, but
that the Countess drew it nearer to herself, clasping her hands about
it, and said softly--

"Tell me more--" and then, after a little pause, she added, "and you may
call me Lucia! For have you not saved my life?"

Like a dream the old Edinburgh room, where with Giovanni Turazza I read
the Tuscan poets, came to me. An ancient rhyme was in my head, and ere
I was aware I murmured--

"Saint Lucy of the Eyes!"

The Countess started as if she had been stung.

"No, not that--not that," she said; "I am not good enough."

There was some meaning in the phrase to her which was not known to me.

"You are good enough to be an angel--I am sure," I said--foolishly, I
fear.

There was a little silence, and a waft of scented air like balm--I think
the perfume of her hair, or it may have been the roses clambering on the
wall. I know not. We were passing some.

"No," she said, very firmly, "not so, nor nearly so--only good enough to
desire to be better, and to walk here with you and listen to you telling
of your mother."

We walked on thus till we heard the roar of the Trevisa falls, and then
turned back, pacing slowly along the shore. The Countess kept her head
hid beneath the mantilla, but swayed a little towards me as though
listening. And I spoke out my heart to her as I had never done before.
Many of the things I said to her then, caused me to blush at the
remembrance of them for many days after. But under the hush of night,
with her hands pressing on my arm, the perfume of flowers in the air,
and a warm woman's heart beating so near mine, it is small wonder that I
was not quite myself. At last, all too soon, we came to the door, and
the Countess stood to say good-night.

"Good-night!" she said, giving me her hand and looking up, yet staying
me with her great eyes; "good-night, friend of mine! You saved my life
to-day, or at least I hold it so. It is not much to save, and I did not
value it highly, but you were not to know that. You have told me much,
and I think I know more. You are young. Twenty-three is childhood. I am
twenty-six, and ages older than you. Remember, you are not to fall in
love with me. You have never been in lo