reflecting hidden
rainbow tints, enhanced by the golden traceries delicate and
artistic--the beautiful young face framed in those sea-gems dear to the
Venetian heart, each pearl a study of changing light.

"There is none like it in Venice!" she exclaimed; "nor hath there ever
been. Thou hast treated me like a queen, my Marco!"

"I wished it so," he answered impatiently, for he could not wait. "And
the face----"

"Never hath there been a more exquisite! It is the Titian's work?"

"Nay, of the Veronese; for the goblet is of mine own designing. And the
master, for my sake, hath spent himself upon the face."

"He will be here to-night, and we will thank him," she answered
graciously. "And for thee--thou hast excelled thyself."

But Marcantonio answered nothing to her praise; his eyes were fixed upon
the miniature of the Veronese.

"If Paolo Cagliari findeth none so beautiful among the noble damigelle
who will grace thy fete to-night as this face which he hath painted, we
will forgive him," she said playfully. "But thee, Marco, we will not
forgive. The time hath come when thou shouldst choose; thy father and I
have spoken of this."

She came close to him and folded his hand caressingly. "The Contessa
Beata Tagliapietra hath a wonderful charm; and there is the Lady
Agnesina Contarini--a face for a Titian!"

"Mother! I pray thee----" Marcantonio interrupted.

"Nay, Marco--to-day it is fitting; for thy wedding should follow soon
upon this fete. Thou art no longer a boy, and Venice looks to us to help
thee choose a fitting bride; for there is none other of this generation
of thy name, and thou,--I will not hide it from thee since thou needest
heartening,--thou wilt be a fortunate wooer with these maidens, or--or
elsewhere. But my little Beata is charming-----"

"Mother," said Marcantonio, flushing like a boy, yet drawing himself up
proudly, "I have already crowned her who shall be my bride with pearls;
and for her face--thou hast named it exquisite." Then, unbending, he
threw his arms around her and kissed her on the forehead.

The Lady Laura stood as if petrified.

"I know her not," she said, when she could speak. "Name her to me." Her
voice was hard and strained.

"Do not speak so, madre mia! Love her--she is so charming! And she will
not come to me unless thou love her too."

"How, then--if she is thy bride?" The words seemed to choke her.

"Nay, but my _chosen_ bride--holding my vows with my heart; yet, u