"The sheep with their little lambs Passed me by on the road: All in the April evening I thought on the Lamb of God. "The lambs were weary, and crying With a weak human cry: I thought on the Lamb of God Going meekly to die. "Up in the blue, blue mountains, Dewy pastures are sweet, With rest for the little bodies, And rest for the little feet. "But for the Lamb of God, Up on the hill-top green, Only a Cross of shame, Two stark crosses between! "All in the April evening, April airs were abroad; I saw the sheep with their lambs: I thought on the Lamb of God."[1] There was a pause after. Then Openshaw sighed. He knew they were in each other's arms, the morning heaven blessing them; but with him it was spiritual darkness, and bitter evenfall. A boat passed below, the oarsmen curious; and the young loiterers on the old wharf stood apart. "My angel, my sainta!" "Hush! It is twelve already; I must be off." "Ah, the time is so short! Cruel!" "Dear, you are nicest when you are good." "Behold, I am." At last the farewells and vacancy; and then footsteps making towards the angle of the wall. Mr. Openshaw's stately head, crowned with the abundant glossy black and gray which gave it such distinction in a land of bald pates, arose upon the surprised view of the new-comer. He, on his part, with no question as to a gentleman's supposed midday slumbers, stooped, and offered Mr. Openshaw his hat. The two, confronted, smiled a little; both tall, aquiline, clean-shaven. "I thank you. Perhaps you would rather have me say, _molte grazie_. You are an Italian, are you not?" The other, wonderingly, but with native grace, assented. "I am a Florentine." How he said it! Where did he get that gypsy princeliness, his clear pallor, the nameless magic that takes the heart? "You speak English fairly." "I have been in youra country long." "And I in yours, many years ago." Now Openshaw was dallying, and consciously. What impelled him to open sociabilities with such an one, he did not know. This stripling of another grade reminded him dimly of something, and teased his eye. "What a bearing the fellow has!" he thought again. Having snapped every tie with his own life, he could afford to be interested in that of others. He took pleasure in the diverting accent and idiom, and the abandon with which the loose, rough clothes were worn. "Florence is the most beautiful of cities. You ought almost to go back." It relieved his heart somehow, the foolish commonplace, as might the colloquy about the weather among aristocrats in the tumbrils of the French Revolution. All time hung a mortal weight upon his hands; nor did the un-Americanized stranger seem to be in a hurry. But now he started a little.