or sleeping--such strangers as had come over in the
morning, were waiting for the cool of the evening to return. She had
not time to look about her long; before she could prevent him, Antonio
had seized her in his arms, and carried her to the boat, as if she had
been an infant. He leapt in after her, and with a stroke or two of his
oar, they were in deep water.

She had seated herself at the end of the boat, half turning her back to
him, so that he could only see her profile. She wore a sterner look
than ever, the low straight brow was shaded by her hair; the rounded
lips were firmly closed; only the delicate nostril occasionally gave a
wilful quiver. After they had gone on a while in silence, she began to
feel the scorching of the sun; and unloosening her bundle, she threw
the handkerchief over her head, and began to make her dinner of the
bread; for in Capri she had eaten nothing.

Antonio did not stand this long; he fetched out a couple of the
oranges, with which the baskets had been filled in the morning: "Here
is something to eat to your bread, Laurella;" he said: "don't think I
kept them for you; they had rolled out of the basket, and I only found
them when I brought the baskets back to the boat."

"Eat them yourself; bread is enough for me."

"They are refreshing in this heat, and you have had to walk so far."

"They gave me a drink of water, and that refreshed me."

"As you please;" he said,--and let them drop into the basket

Silence again; the sea was smooth as glass. Not a ripple was heard
against the prow. Even the white seabirds that roost among those caves,
pursued their prey with soundless flight.

"You might take the oranges to your mother;" again commenced Tonino.

"We have oranges at home, and when they are done, I can go and buy some
more."

"Nay, take these to her, and give them to her with my compliments."

"She does not know you."

"You could tell her who I am."

"I do not know you either."

It was not for the first time that she denied him thus. One Sunday of
last year, when that painter had first come to Sorrento, Antonio had
chanced to be playing Boccia with some other young fellows, in the
little piazza by the chief street.

There, for the first time, had the painter caught sight of Laurella,
who, with her pitcher on her head, had passed by without taking any
notice of him. The Neapolitan, struck by her appearance, stood still
and gazed after her, not heeding that he was stand