The vibrations of the last stroke from the great clock in the Square had died down to the faint trembling in his ear; the single bell in all the churches was tolling for the Angelus; hope was just beginning to flicker in John’s heart as a candle trembles that feels its approaching end and then, round the corner of the _Rio San Luca_, shooting quickly into the Grand Canal, came the twentieth gondola John had espied, in which one solitary lady was seated. Something about the haste with which this gondolier plied his oar, something in the attitude of the lady as she half leant forward, half reclined upon the cushion at her back, something even in the crisp, swift hiss of the water as it shot away from the bows, brought him the conviction at last that it was Jill. When instinct is once awake, it finds a thousand little proofs to give it assurance. As the gondola came nearer, the lady moved her position. She had observed John waiting. He strained his eyes to see through the glare of light that sparkled up from the dancing water. Then a little white handkerchief darted out, and fluttering, shook the beating of his heart with realisation. It was Jill. In another moment, he was holding her hands and saying the most common-place words of greeting, but in a voice that held in it all the joy of his heart. The gondolier stood by smiling, waiting to be paid. The signora had wanted to be taken quickly to the _Piazetta_, and he had travelled as fast as if they were going to a funeral. It was almost payment enough to see her meeting with the signor. Not quite enough, however, for when they walked away, forgetting, in the embarrassement of their happiness, what he was owed, he stepped forward and, very politely, touched John’s arm. "_Doue lire, signor,_" he said and showed some wonderful teeth in a brilliant smile. John thought of a London cabby under similar circumstances, giving him three and a smile as well. Then he turned back to Jill. "Well--are you going to explain it all?" he asked. "There’s nothing to explain," she said, half laughing. "I’m here--isn’t that enough?" "But your husband?" "We’re not married yet. I pleaded for a long engagement." "Then your people?" "Aren’t you satisfied that I’m here?" she said gently. "Does it matter how I got here? You might just as well be curious to know whether I came by the St. Gothard or the Simplon. But you don’t ask that. I’m here--you don’t worry about that. Then why worry about the other?" and her eyes twinkled with mystery. "Is it Mrs. Crossthwaite again?" She nodded her head with a laugh. "She’s with you?" "No--she’s at her cottage in Devonshire." "But you’ll be found out." "Not if I go back to-morrow." "And you are going back?" "Yes." "And you came all this way----?" "Yes--here I am--in the City of Beautiful Nonsense again." "The little old white-haired lady was right then!" he exclaimed. "How right?"