d and sun-stricken: her spirit, half-crushed beneath daily
hardships, rose at once to the magic touch of ennobling sentiment. Oh!
what a new world was that which now opened before them: how beautiful,
how bright, how full of tenderness, how rich in generous emotions!

'Only think,' said she, looking into his eyes, 'but this very morning
we had not known each other, and now we are bound together for ever and
ever. Is it not so, _Gherardi mio?_'

'So swear I!' cried Gerald, as he pressed her to his heart; and then,
in the full current of his warm eloquence, he poured forth a hundred
schemes for their future career. They would seek out some sweet spot of
earth, far away and secluded, like that wherein they rambled then, only
more beautiful in verdure, and more picturesque, and build themselves a
hut; there they would live together a life of bliss.

It was only by earnest persuasion she could turn him from at once
putting the project into execution. 'Why not now?' cried he. 'Here we
are free, beyond the wood; you cross a little stream, and we are in
Tuscany. I saw the frontier from the mountain-top this morning.'

'And then,' said the girl, 'how are we to live?' We shall neither have
the Babbo nor Donna Gaetana; I cannot dance without her music, nor have
you learned anything as yet to do. _Mio Gherardi_, we must wait and
study hard; you must learn to be Paolo, and to declaim "Antonio," too.
I'll teach you these; besides, the Babbo has a volume full of things
would suit you. Our songs, too, we have not practised them together;
and in the towns where we are going, the public, they say, are harder to
please than in these mountain villages.' And then she pictured forth
a life of artistic triumph--success dear to her humble heart, the very
memory of which brought tears of joy to her eyes. These she was longing
to display before him, and to make him share in. Thus talking, they
returned to the encampment, where, as the heat was past, the Babbo was
now preparing to set out on his journey.

CHAPTER XIV. THE ACCIDENTS OF 'ARTIST' LIFE

An autumnal night, in all its mellow softness, was just closing in upon
the Lungo l'Arno of Florence. Toward the east and south the graceful
outlines of San Miniato, with its tall cypresses, might be seen against
the sky, while all the city, which lay between, was wrapped in deepest
shadow. It was the season of the Ville-giatura, when the great nobles
are leading country lives; still the va