Every night when Aurora went to her room she extinguished her candle and sat awhile by the open window. The custom had at first been a poetical one, it was now a sign of trouble. She had seen that evening but too clearly that one refusal was not enough for Mr. Edward Churchill. "It is another reason for going away," she thought. "I must take myself out of his sight. And yet I like him so! Why cannot he be friendly and nothing more?" The canal was almost deserted, though the Lagoon below was alive with boats. The water was a dark mirror below. She could see the stars in it, and the sound of its liquid touch to step and mooring-post was almost inaudible. As she sat there, a gondola slid along inside the posts and stopped under her window. A moment after, a chord was struck on the strings of a mandolin. Ah! a serenade! It was not her first one by far, and she leaned forward with pleasure to hear it. The scene was well set for music. But as the first words fell on her ear she shrank back again. It was Edward Churchill's mellow voice, and he sang a serenade of Mrs. Norton's, in English: Soft o'er the fountain, Lingering, shines the southern moon; Far o'er the mountain Breaks the day,--too soon. In thy dark eyes' splendor, Where the warm light loves to dwell, Weary looks, yet tender, Speak their fond farewell. Nita, Juanita, ask thy soul if we should part! Nita, Juanita, lean thou on my heart! When, in thy dreaming, Hours li'ke these shall shine again, And morning beaming Prove thy dream is vain, Wilt thou not, relenting, For thine absent lover sigh, In thy heart consenting To a prayer gone by? Nita, Juanita, let me linger by thy side! Nita, Juanita, be my own dear bride! Silence fell, continued, and pressed. There was no note of music from below, no response from above. Then there was a stroke of oars lightly falling, then ceasing, and again silence. Not a sign of response. Slowly the gondola glided away and disappeared in the night. "I am so sorry for him!" Aurora murmured, and softly closed her window. "So sorry!" She recollected what Mrs. Lindsay had said of the fascination of this serenade: "If the woman who hears this sung to her--well sung--on a beautiful night does not at once accept the singer, it is because she is in love with some one else." "I am in love with freedom and with poetry," Aurora exclaimed, and hastily put the subject away. The cortège that accompanied the babe to church the next morning was a picturesque one. A dozen gondolas brought their loads to the palace steps, and the company entered and paid their respects to the mother while waiting for the procession from the nursery.