'has Gaspare ever said you were like somebody?' What is it, Signora?"

"Nothing, Ruffo. Go on."

"But--"

"Go on, Ruffo."

"'Has Gaspare ever said you were like somebody?' my mamma said."

"And you--what did you say?"

"I said, 'No,' Signora. And that is true. Don Gaspare has never said I
was like somebody."

The boy had evidently finished what he had to say. He stood quietly by
Hermione, waiting for her to speak in her turn. For a moment she said
nothing. Then she put her hand on Ruffo's arm.

"Whom do you think your mother meant when she said 'somebody,' Ruffo?"

"Signora, I do not know."

"But surely--didn't you ask whom she meant?"

"No, Signora. I told my mamma Don Gaspare had never said that. She was
crying. And so I did not say anything more."

Hermione still held his arm for a moment. Then her hand dropped down.

Ruffo was looking at her steadily with his bright and searching eyes.

"Signora, do you know what she meant?"

"I! How can I tell, Ruffo? I have never seen your mother. How can I know
what she meant?"

"No, Signora."

Again there was a silence. Then Hermione said:

"I should like to see your mother, Ruffo."

"Si, Signora."

"I must see her."

Hermione said the last words in a low and withdrawn voice, like one
speaking to herself. As she spoke she was gazing at the boy beside her,
and in her eyes there was a mystery almost like that of the night.

"Ruffo," she added, in a moment, "I want you to promise me something."

"Si, Signora."

"Don't speak to any one about the little talk we have had to-night.
Don't say anything, even to Gaspare."

"No, Signora."

For a short time they remained together talking of other things.
Hermione spoke only enough to encourage Ruffo. And always she was
watching him. But to-night she did not see the look she longed for, the
look that made Maurice stand before her. Only she discerned, or believed
she discerned, a definite physical resemblance in the boy to the dead
man, a certain resemblance of outline, a likeness surely in the poise
of the head upon the strong, brave-looking neck, and in a trait that
suggested ardor about the full yet delicate lips. Why had she never
noticed these things before? Had she been quite blind? Or was she now
imaginative? Was she deceiving herself?

"Good-night, Ruffo," she said, at last.

He took off his cap and stood bareheaded.

"Good-night, Signora."

He put the cap on his dark hair with a free and grac