“Oh, dreadful, dreadful,” she cried, nodding her head. It was my turn to laugh now. “Then I must be careful not to vex you.” “Yes. But I will turn my tongue seven times before I speak, if you do,” she promised. “Are you going far?” I asked. “I am going nowhere. I am taking a walk.” “Shall we go to the Villa Nazionale, and watch the driving?” “Or to the Toledo, and look at the shop-windows?” “We can do both. We will begin at the Toledo, and end in the Villa.” “Bene,” she acquiesced. After a little silence, “I am so glad I met you,” I informed her, looking into her eyes. He eyes softened adorably. “I am so glad too,” she said. “You are lovely, you are sweet,” I vowed, with enthusiasm. “Oh, no!” she protested. “I am as God made me.” “You are lovely, you are sweet. I thought—when I first saw you, above there, in the piazza—when you came out of church, and gave the soldo to the old beggar woman—I thought you had the loveliest smile I had ever seen.” A beautiful blush suffused her face, and her eyes swam in a mist of pleasure. “É vero?” she questioned. “Oh, vero, vero. That is why I followed you. You don’t mind my having followed you?” “Oh, no; I am glad.” After another interval of silence, “You are not Neapolitan?” I said. “You don’t speak like a Neapolitan.” “No; I am Florentine. We live in Naples for my father’s health. He is not strong. He cannot endure the cold winters of the North.” I murmured something sympathetic; and she went on, “My father is a violinist. To-day he has gone to Capri, to play at a festival. He will not be back until to-morrow. So I was very lonesome.” “You have no mother?” “My mother is dead,” she said, crossing herself. In a moment she added, with a touch of pride, “During the season my father plays in the orchestra of the San Carlo.” “I am sure I know what your name is,” said I. “Oh? How can you know? What is it?” “I think your name is Rosabella.” “Ah, then you are wrong. My name is Elisabetta. But in Naples everybody says Zabetta. And yours?” “Guess.” “Oh, I cannot guess. Not—not Federico?” “Do I look as if my name were Federico?” She surveyed me gravely for a minute, then shook her head pensively. “No; I do not think your name is Federico.” And therewith I told her my name, and made her repeat it till she could pronounce it without a struggle. It sounded very pretty, coming from her pretty lips, quite Southern and romantic, with its r’s tremendously enriched. “Anyhow, I know your age,” said I. “What is it?” “You are seventeen.” “No—ever so much older.” “Eighteen then.” “I shall be nineteen in July.” VIII