c-room opened. Luigi hesitated, his hand upon the door, wistful
wishes in his face; then he cast a smiling, deprecating glance at the
mother, lightly crossed the floor, was over the sill, and stood beside
Eve in the walk.

To right and left the long, straight stems rose in rank, and bore their
floral crown of listening lilies, calm, majestic, pure, and only
stirring now and then when the wind shook a waft of gold-dust down the
shining leaf, or rifled the inmost heart of its delicious wealth of
odor; on either side of the path the snowy bloom lay like a fallen
cloud.

"It is a company of angels," said Luigi, brokenly, "a cloud of seraphs
with their gold harps! If they should sing," hazarded he, "it would be
the song the Signorina gave me,--alas, it is long since!"

"It is a week," said she, laughing and lingering.

"Eve!" came a warning voice.

"That is the Signorina's name?" questioned Luigi, as he bent to help her
cut the stems.

"Eve,--yes, they call me so."

"Certainly I had not thought it," he repeated to himself.

"Why, what did you suppose it was?" she heedlessly asked.

"_Luigia!_" said he. And his low, rapt tone was indescribably simple,
sweet, and intense.

Eve did not know what the boy himself was called.

"I wish it were," said she. "That is a pleasant sound."

And rising with her armful, she went in and heaped the jar with honor,
while Luigi, pleased and proud, lifted it to the level of the
black-walnut bracket.

"Signora, behold what is beautiful!" said he, stepping back.

The Signora looked at the lilies, but Luigi looked at Eve.

They had lunched. Eve went into the other room to her exercises. Her
mother poured out a glass of wine for the unbidden guest. He repulsed it
with an angry eye and a disdainful gesture. But then there rose the
sound of Eve's voice just beyond;--while he stayed, he could listen.
With sudden change from frown to smile, he stepped forward and took the
plate.

"To the Signora's health," said he, with a courtesy that sat well on the
supple shape and the dark beauty of the boy, whose homely garb, whose
poverty, and whose profession seemed only the disguise of some young
prince,--and sipped the wine, and broke the fine, white bread, while his
cheek was scarlet with delight at recurrence of the familiar sounds,
even though in such simple phrase.

"That is a proud boy," said Eve's mother, when he had gone, and she
paused a moment to see how Eve went on. "He urges no