At Bayard Street the sound of voices raised in a familiar anthem caught her ear, and there swung into view from around the corner a handful of marching men. They were members of the Genovese Society, garbed bravely in the uniform of Italian infantry, out to celebrate the Feast of St. George, of all holidays the dearest to Genoa. At sight of them the cloud of anxiety that had shadowed her face lifted, and she smiled with a shrewd content. The Feast of San Giorgio! Her brother’s birthday as well as the day of the knight who carved the dragon. The alarm sounded by Angelica concerning Juno had driven the fact from her head, but there came back with it now a heartsome consciousness that it was a day of rockribbed truth in her brother’s life. If at other times his promises might have the frailty of spaghetti sticks, she knew that it would not be so on this, his saint’s day. It had ever been so with the men of Genoa. With renewed spirits she foresaw the success of her plan to exact from him a pledge not to marry until she should return from Italy. Such a promise or any other made to-day he would keep, though all the maids and widows of Mulberry united to make him disregard it. She found him alone at the shop, sprawled outside beneath the Wooden Bunch in his curve-backed chair, bathing in the sunshine. Only on rare and critical occasions did she visit the shop, and the sight of her brought him quickly to his feet. “_Governo ladro!_” he exclaimed. “What has happened?” “I am going to Italy.” “To Italy! What for?” “It is twelve years since I heard the chimes of San Lorenzo.” “Yes; I think so,” he said, going behind the counter, shaving off a piece of Roman cheese and tossing it into his mouth. “When do you set off?” “As soon as possible.” “There is a ship for Genoa to-morrow,” he said eagerly. Looking him in the eye, she asked, “Are you betrothed to the Napolitana?” “Satan the crocodile!” he roared, pounding the counter. “This is too much! Do you count me a simpleton?” “Promise me, _caro fratello_, that you will not take a wife until I return.” “By the Egg, I will not promise! Do you think I don’t know this is my birthday? Suppose the ship went down? I should have to live and die a bachelor.” “Promise at least that you will marry no one for three months.” “_Ma che?_ What nonsense is this? Are you afraid of the Napolitana? Bah! How foolish you are! A fine woman, yes. But do you think I don’t know what I am about?” “Promise for three months.” “_Si, si_, if you wish it; but it is all grand nonsense.” “Do you know what I am going to do in Italy?” she asked, with an essay at archness that was a sorry failure. “Hunt a husband?” he chuckled. “No; a wife.” “What shall you do with her?” he asked gravely, scenting the truth. “Bring her to you, my brother.” “To me! Excuse me; keep her for yourself. That is an affair I shall attend to when the time comes.” “But in Mulberry you can not get what I shall bring you from Italy.” “What is that?”