But no; when he looks into the face of the woman lying amid the cushions, he knows that it is all true, and that this shadowy figure is more real to him than all the men and women he has ever known. Presently they emerge into the broader waters of the lagoon, where lie the fisher craft, with their many-colored sails spread to dry in the afternoon breeze. The smooth green water is marked here and there with the black mooring-piles, which throw a shadowy outline on the changeful tide. To the American, bred in a land where Art is in its cradle, and beauty exists in its more austere aspect alone, the glory of the spectacle, the wondrous architecture, the wealth of color, are intoxicating. The western sky glows with the first pale tints of the sunset, against which a score of spires are darkly outlined. The air is musical with soft, distant chimes, and the song of the gondoliers is rhythmic to the motion of their oars. From the shore come cheerful sounds of holiday folk; and now and then a _sandalo_ sweeps past them with a freight of joyous pleasure-seekers. In one of these a group of masqueraders are singing a gay love-ballad. Millicent hums the refrain to herself, and answers pleasantly to the noisy greeting with which one of the party hails them. A young girl, with the red-gold hair of her people, turns and looks long into Millicent’s face. She wears over her broad shoulders a leopard-skin for warmth; while her head, with its glorious crown of hair, has no other protection than the doubtful one of a garland of roses. As she looks at Millicent, she takes the fragrant wreath from her brow, and, with a graceful salutation, tosses it into the gondola. In a moment the strong strokes of the two rowers carry the _sandalo_ out of sight, and Galbraith lays the flowers in Millicent’s lap. "May the saints bless the child! ’T is the tribute of happiness and beauty to grief and pain." The air has grown chill with the down-dropping of the sun, and Girolomo, unbidden, turns the gondola homeward. As they float past the familiar places, Millicent looks long and steadily at the scenes which are so dear to her. She shivers as the Bridge of Sighs looms dimly forth, and smiles again at the familiar faces of the boatmen on the steps of the _piazzetta_. "I am so glad that you have seen me in the city of my birth; you can understand me now as you could never have understood me over there. Dear, dreamy Venice, where great vices and greater virtues have flourished more grandly than anywhere else in the world! And now it is all past, her glory and her pain; and knowing this, we make the best of the pleasant things left to us. We steep ourselves in her rich beauty, content with its perfection; we con over her mysterious legends, and forget that other nations are living, striving, working, and making their histories, while we are dreaming and playing our lives away. Your great Saxon virtue, ’Truth,’ is meaningless to us; we are content with Beauty."