that Poor Jr. turned his face abruptly toward hers at this,
but he said nothing, by which I understood not only his wisdom but his
forbearance.

"Strangely enough," she went on, slowly, "that song reminded me of
something in Paris. Do you remember"--she turned to Poor Jr.--"that poor
man we saw in front of the Cafe' de la Paix with the sign painted upon
his head?"

Ah, the good-night, with its friendly cloak! The good, kind night!

"I remember," he answered, with some shortness. "A little faster,
boatman!"

"I don't know what made it," she said, "I can't account for it, but I've
been thinking of him all through that last song."

Perhaps not so strange, since one may know how wildly that poor devil
had been thinking of her!

"I've thought of him so often," the gentle voice went on. "I felt so
sorry for him. I never felt sorrier for any one in my life. I was sorry
for the poor, thin cab-horses in Paris, but I was sorrier for him. I
think it was the saddest sight I ever saw. Do you suppose he still has
to do that, Rufus?"

"No, no," he answered, in haste. "He'd stopped before I left. He's all
right, I imagine. Here's the Danieli."

She fastened a shawl more closely about her mother, whom I, with a
ringing in my ears, was trying to help up the stone steps. "Rufus,
I hope," the sweet voice continued, so gently,--"I hope he's found
something to do that's very grand! Don't you? Something to make up to
him for doing that!"

She had not the faintest dream that it was I. It was just her beautiful
heart.

The next afternoon Venice was a bleak and empty setting, the jewel
gone. How vacant it looked, how vacant it was! We made not any effort
to penetrate the galleries; I had no heart to urge my friend. For us the
whole of Venice had become one bridge of sighs, and we sat in the shade
of the piazza, not watching the pigeons, and listening very little to
the music. There are times when St. Mark's seems to glare at you with
Byzantine cruelty, and Venice is too hot and too cold. So it was then.
Evening found us staring out at the Adriatic from the terrace of a cafe'
on the Ledo, our coffee cold before us. Never was a greater difference
than that in my companion from the previous day. Yet he was not silent.
He talked of her continually, having found that he could talk of her to
me--though certainly he did not know why it was or how. He told me, as
we sat by the grey-growing sea, that she had spoken of me.

"She liked you,