f the
sea as though some strong Amphion-music were but that moment calling
them from the deep; and when day departs, that magic of the swiftly
falling dusk, and that white foam and flower of St. Mark's upon the
purple intensity of the sky!--through each phase of the hours and the
seasons, <i>rest</i> is still the message of Venice, rest enriched with
endless images, impressions, sensations, that cost no trouble and breed
no pain.

It was this spell of rest that descended for a while on Kitty as they
glided downward to the Piazzetta. The terror of the day relaxed. Her
telegram would be in time; or, if not, she would throw herself into
William's arms, and he <i>must</i> forgive her!--because she was so foolish
and weak, so tired and sad. She slipped her hand into Margaret's; they
talked in low voices of the child, and Kitty was all appealing
melancholy and charm.

At the Piazzetta there was already a crowd of gondolas, and at their
head the <i>barca</i>, which carried the musicians.

"You are late, Kitty!" cried Madame d'Estrees, waving to them. "Shall we
draw out and come to you?--or will you just join on where you are?"

For the Vercelli gondola was already wedged into a serried line of boats
in the wake of the <i>barca</i>.

"Never mind us," said Kitty. "We'll tack on somehow."

And inwardly she was delighted to be thus separated from her mother and
the chattering crowd by which Madame d'Estrees seemed to be surrounded.
Kitty and Margaret bade their men fall in, and they presently found
themselves on the Salute side of the floating audience, their prow
pointing to the canal.

The <i>barca</i> began to move, and the mass of gondolas followed. Round
them, and behind them, other boats were passing and repassing, each with
its slim black body, its swanlike motion, its poised oarsman, and its
twinkling light. The lagoon towards the Guidecca was alive with these
lights; and a magnificent white steamer adorned with flags and
lanterns--the yacht, indeed, of a German prince--shone in the
mid-channel.

On they floated. Here were the hotels, with other illuminated boats in
front of their steps, whence spoiled voices shouted, "Santa Lucia," till
even Venice and the Grand Canal became a vulgarity and a weariness.
These were the "serenate publiche," common and commercial affairs, which
the private serenata left behind in contempt, steering past their
flaring lights for the dark waters of romance which lay beyond.

Sudden