THOUGH Carolina had not been blind to the meaning of the signals flashed by Armando and Marianna’s eyes whenever the lovers were together, Bertino’s words stirred her to the need of taking instant measures to smother any marplot that might brew from their attachment. To this end she resolved to keep them apart until the final act of her private theatricals should be played. Thus it fell out that on Friday, two days before the time for Signor Di Bello’s second essay at a wedding, when Armando called to deliver a most weighty message to Marianna, he was met at the door with Carolina’s avowal that the girl was indisposed. He might have credited the dreadful news but for a face that he saw at the window as he walked away, and a pair of hands and lips that were telegraphing with much energy. “Wait, and I shall be out,” was the only part of Marianna’s excited display that he understood. But it was enough to insure his waiting a week, had that been necessary. As it was, she did not come until darkness had called lights to the _caffè_ windows and the banks and grocery shops had put up their shutters. “It is finished now,” she said, hatless and breathing hard. “I can never go back to Casa Di Bello.” “What matter?” he asked, taking her hand, and for the first time in many a day showing a joy and contempt for circumstance that befitted his years. “Come along. I have beautiful news. Let us go to the gardens of Paradise.” It was the first music night of the season, and the Park had become a vast _potbouilli_ of Italy’s children, with a salting from the Baxter Street Ghetto and a peppering of “Chimmies” and “Mamies” from the old Fourth Ward. Armando and Marianna made their way through the seething mass about the band, deaf to the rag-time melody that filled the sultry air and without eyes for the gorgeous red coats of the musicians. He was telling her how from the blackness of his despair the light of knowledge had suddenly broken, and how in the bitterness of his exile he had found the sweet of content. Far from the band stand, they crowded on to a bench beside two women with yellow babies at their breasts, and Armando continued: “It was last night, and I was here alone, with only the stars for companions. All Mulberry was asleep. First I thought only of myself, and my heart was heavy. Then the points of gold in the sky seemed to whisper--to whisper of you, my precious. After that I was happy. Do you know why? Ah, it was because I had made up my mind.” “Yes,” she repeated eagerly; “you made up your mind to----” “Go home.” “And I?” “You go with me. There; do you not see now why I am happy?” “Madonna-Maria be glorified!” she cried, and the women by their side exchanged glances and grunts. “When?” “By the first ship for Genoa.” “When is that?” “Some day next week.” “Joy!” “Ah! is it not fine? To go back to Italy!” “_Si_; fine.” She paused a moment pensively, then asked, “Have you bought the passage tickets?”