e been very much dissatisfied because I have
been obliged to leave it unfinished. Please begin."

"I cannot remember at this moment," I said, "where we left off."

"I can tell you exactly," she answered, "just as well as if I had the
manuscript before me. Tomaso held Lucilla by the hand; the cart was
ready in which he was to travel to the sea-coast; they were calling him
to hurry; and he was trying to look into her face, to see if he should
tell her something that was in his heart. You had not yet said what it
was that was in his heart. There was a chance, you know, that it might
be that he felt it necessary for her good that the match should be
broken off."

"How did you arrange this in the endings you made?" I asked. "Did you
break off the match?"

"Don't let us bother about my endings," she said. "I want to know
yours."

XXXII.

TOMASO AND LUCILLA.

On this happy morning, sitting in the shade with Sylvia, I should have
much preferred to talk to her of herself and of myself than to dictate
the story of the Sicilian lovers; but if I would keep her with me I must
humor her, at least for a time, and so, as well as I could, I began my
story.

The situation was, however, delightful: it was charming to sit and look
at Sylvia, her portfolio in her lap, pen in hand, and her blue eyes
turned toward me, anxiously waiting for me to speak; it was so
enchanting that my mind could with difficulty be kept to the work in
hand. But it would not do to keep Sylvia waiting. Her pen began to tap
impatiently upon the paper, and I went on. We had written a page or two
when she interrupted me.

"It seems to me," she said, "that if Tomaso really starts for Naples it
will be a good while before we get to the end of the story. So far as I
am concerned, you know, I would like the story just as long as you
choose to make it; but we haven't very much time, and it would be a
dreadful disappointment to me if I should have to go away before the
story is ended."

"Why do you feel in a hurry?" I asked. "If we do not finish this
morning, cannot I come to you to-morrow?"

"Oh, no, indeed," she answered. "It's only by the merest chance, you
know, that I am writing for you this morning, and I couldn't do it
again. That would be impossible. In fact, I want to get through before
the boat comes back. Not that I should mind mother, for she knows that I
used to write for you, and I could easily explain how I came to be doing
it now; and