The long, bright day had drawn to a close. The west was a blaze of gold against which the ilex and the acacia were black as funeral plumes, while in the quaint, crooked streets of ancient Nervi people were moving, enjoying the _bel fresco_ after the burden of the scorching day. The sun glowed and sank beyond the calm, sparkling Mediterranean, and in the tender violet hues of the east the moon rose. Crimson clouds drifted against the azure, and were reflected as in a mirror on the broad Gulf of Genoa. San Giovanni’s tower stood out clear against the yellow sky, and its bells chimed solemnly. As the hour wore on, evening fell. Boats glided over the glassy sea; on the hills the cypresses were black against the faint gold that lingered in the west, and there was an odour of carnations and acacias everywhere. Noiseless footsteps came and went. People passed softly in shadow. The moonlight was sweet and clear upon the ancient tower and time-worn stones; in the stillness the little torrents made sad rushing sounds as they plashed towards the sea. Across the moss-grown piazza an old monk walked slowly and thoughtfully. Leaving the _osteria_ where I had taken up a temporary abode, I strolled through the quaint little half-deserted town, and out upon the road which ran by the sea-shore towards old Savona. Engrossed in my own thoughts, I had been standing watching the shadows chase the sun-rays on the dusky purple sides of the Apennines, and the fireflies dancing away their brief lives among the boughs of the magnolias and over the fields of maize. A cigarette between my lips, I was heedless of where I walked. As I passed a row of small cottages, and emerged upon the broad Corniche Road, the strains of mandolines played by happy, light-hearted fishermen greeted my ears, accompanied by snatches of peasant songs. I am not a fatalist, neither have I any spiritualistic tendencies, but there are times when I am half inclined to believe in a distinct power—magnetic, if you will. I think I must have slept, as I have only the most vague recollection of my promenade. When I became fully aware of things around me, I found myself sitting in an armchair, with my chin resting upon my hands. There was a dim, indistinct consciousness of realising that a storm had occurred—that I had seen a light and knocked timidly at a cottage door. A young woman in peasant costume, and very beautiful, was sitting beside me. I glanced slowly round the humble interior. We were alone. Little by little I remembered. It was she who had opened the door and bade me welcome. Though sad, her face pleased me. Were it not for her light breathing I should think she was of wax. I cannot tell what air of recognition I found in her voice and manner. Instantly, however, I remembered a half-forgotten period, like a queer dream; a name was upon my lips, but I could not utter it. I stammered a question.