ime in the hope of seeing her, sitting on a
rush-bottomed stool outside the wine shop, and generally chewing the end
of a wisp of broom. He had the faculty of sitting motionless for an hour
at a time, his sturdy white-stockinged legs crossed one over the other,
his square peasant's hands crossed upon his knee,--the sharp angles of
the thumb-bones marked the labouring race,--his soft black hat tilted a
little forward over his eyes, his jacket buttoned up when the weather
was cool, thrown back and showing the loosened shirt open far below the
throat when the day was warm.

Gloria reminded him of Dalrymple. The process of mind was a very simple
one and needs no analysis. He had sought Dalrymple for years, but in
vain, and Gloria had something in her face which recalled her father,
though the latter's features were rough and harshly accentuated.
Stefanone had made the acquaintance of the one-eyed cobbler without
difficulty and had ascertained that there was a mystery about Gloria,
whom the cobbler had first seen on the morning after Stefanone had met
her in the storm. It was of course very improbable that she should be
the daughter of Dalrymple and Annetta, but even the faint possibility of
being on the track of his enemy had a strong effect upon the unforgiving
peasant. If he ever found Dalrymple, he intended to kill him. In the
meanwhile he had found a simple plan for finding out whether Gloria was
the Scotchman's daughter or not. He waited patiently for the spring, and
he came to Rome now every month for a week at a time.

More than once during the past year he had brought small presents of
fruit and wine and country cakes for Gloria, and both she and Griggs
knew all about him, and got their wine from the little shop which he
supplied. Gloria was pleased by the decent, elderly peasant's admiration
of her beauty, which he never failed to express when he got a chance of
speaking to her. When little Walter Crowdie was first carried out into
the sun, Stefanone was in the street, and he looked long and earnestly
into the baby's face.

"There is the same thing in the eyes," he muttered, as he turned away,
after presenting the nurse with a beautiful jumble, which looked as
though it had been varnished, and was adorned with small drops of hard
pink sugar. "If it is he--an evil death on him and all his house."

And he strolled slowly back to the wine shop, his hand fumbling with the
big, curved, brass-handled knife which he ca