efforts, improvising
extravagant compliments to Maurice, to the absent signora, to Maddalena,
and even to themselves. And with each toast the wine went down till
Maurice called a halt.

"I am a real Sicilian," he said. "But if I drink any more I shall be
under the table. Get out the cards, Salvatore. Sette e mezzo, and I'll
put down the stakes. No one to go above twenty-five centesimi, with fifty
for the doubling. Gaspare's sure to win. He always does. And I've just
one cigar apiece. There's no wind. Bring out the candles and let's play
out here."

Gaspare ran for the candles while Salvatore got the cards, well-thumbed
and dirty. Maddalena's long eyes were dancing. Such a festa as this was
rare in her life, for, dwelling far from the village, she seldom went to
any dance or festivity. Her blood was warm with the wine and with joy,
and the youth in her seemed to flow like the sea in a flood-tide.
Scarcely ever before had she seen her harsh father so riotously gay, so
easy with a stranger, and she knew in her heart that this was her
festival. Maurice's merry and ardent eyes told her that, and Gaspare's
smiling glances of boyish understanding. She felt excited, almost
light-headed, childishly proud of herself. If only some of the girls of
Marechiaro could see, could know!

When the cards were thrown upon the table, and Maurice had dealt out a
lira to each one of the players as stakes, and cried, "Maddalena and I'll
share against you, Salvatore, and Gaspare!" she felt that she had nothing
more to wish for, that she was perfectly happy. But she was happier still
when, after a series of games, Maurice pushed back his chair and said:

"I've had enough. Salvatore, you are like Gaspare, you have the devil's
luck. Together you can't be beaten. But now you play against each other
and let's see who wins. I'll put down twenty-five lire. Play till one of
you's won every soldo of it. Play all night if you like."

And he counted out the little paper notes on the table, giving two to
Salvatore and two to Gaspare, and putting one under a candlestick.

"I'll keep the score," he added, pulling out a pencil and a sheet of
paper. "No play higher than fifty, with a lira when one of you makes
'sette e mezzo' with under four cards."

"Per Dio!" cried Gaspare, flushed with excitement. "Avanti, Salvatore!"

"Avanti, Avanti!" cried Salvatore, in answer, pulling his chair close up
to the table, and leaning forward, looking like a handsome b