'Signorina,' the young man said suddenly, 'take me with you back to America. I will prune your olive trees, I will tend your vines. You can leave me in charge when you go on your travels.' She shook her head with a laugh. 'But I have no vines; I have no olive trees. You would be homesick for Italy.' He shrugged his shoulders. 'Then good-bye. You, signorina, will go around the world and see many sights, while I, for travel, shall ride on a donkey to Valedolmo.' He shook hands all around and with the grace of a prince accepted two of Tony's cigarettes. His parting speech showed him a fatalist. 'What will be, will be. There is a girl----' he waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the village. 'If I go to America then I cannot stay behind and marry Maria. So perhaps it is planned for the best. You will find me, signorina, when next you come to Italy, still digging the ground in Grotta del Monte.' As he swung away Tony glanced after him with a suggestion of malice, then he transferred his gaze to the empty gateway. 'I see no one else with whom you can talk Italian. Perhaps for ten minutes you will deign to speak English with me?' 'I am too tired to talk,' she threw over her shoulder as she followed her father through the gate. They plunged into a tangle of tortuous paved streets, the houses pressing each other as closely as if there were not all the outside world to spread in. Grotta del Monte is built on a slope and its streets are in reality long narrow flights of stairs all converging in the little piazza. The moon was not yet up, and aside from an occasional flickering light before a madonna's shrine, the way was black. 'Signorina, take my arm. I'm afraid maybe you fall.' Tony's voice was humbly persuasive. Constance laughed and laid her hand lightly on his arm. Tony dropped his own hand over hers and held her firmly. Neither spoke until they came to the piazza. 'Signorina,' he whispered, 'you make me ver' happy to-night.' She drew her hand away. 'I'm tired, Tony. I'm not quite myself.' 'No, signorina, yesterday I sink maybe you not yourself, but to-day you ver' good, ver' kind--jus' your own self ze way you ought to be.' The piazza, after the dark, narrow streets that led to it, seemed bubbling with life. The day's work was finished and the evening's play had begun. In the centre, where a fountain splashed into a broad bowl, groups of women and girls with copper water-jars were laughing and gossiping as they waited their turns. One side of the square was flanked by the imposing facade of a church with the village saint on a pedestal in front; the other side, by a cheerfully inviting osteria with tables and chairs set into the street and a glimpse inside of a blazing hearth and copper kettles.