h
had been running in his head for the last few days, its measured
rhythm keeping time with every occupation:

"'My willing soul would stay--'"

"Stop one moment," said the Countess. "I weesh to learn it from
you;" and she looked fondly and tenderly up, but instantly
dropped her eyes.

"'Ma willina sol wooda sta--'"

"In such a frame as this,'" prompted the Senator.

"'Een socha framas zees.' Wait--'Ma willina sol wooda sta in
socha framas zees.' Ah, appropriat! but could I hope zat you were
true to zose lines, my Senator? Well?"

"'And sit and sing herself away,'" said the Senator, in a
faltering voice, and breaking out into a cold perspiration for
fear of committing himself by such uncommonly strong language.

"'Ansit ansin hassaf awai,'" repeated the Countess, her face
lighting up with a sweetly conscious expression.

The Senator paused.

"Well?"

"I--ehem! I forget."

"Forget? Impossible!"

"I do really."

"Ah now! Forget? I see by youar face--you desave. Say on."

The Countess again gently touched his arm with both of her
little hands, and held it as though she would clasp it.

"Have you fear? Ah, cruel!"

The Senator turned pale, but finding refusal impossible, boldly
finished:

"'To everlasting bliss'--there!"

"'To affarlastin blees thar.' Stop. I repeat it all: 'My willina
sol wooda sta in socha framas zees, ansit ansin hassaf awai to
affarlastin blees thar.' Am I right?"

"Yes," said the Senator, meekly.

"I knew you war a poetic sola," said the Countess, confidingly.
"You air honesto--true--you can not desave. When you spik I can
beliv you. Ah, my Senator! an you can spik zis poetry!--at soch a
taime! I nefare knew befoare zat you was so impassione!--an you
air so artaful! You breeng ze confersazione to beauty--to poatry--to
ze poet Watt--so you may spik verses mos impassione! Ah! What
do you mean? Santissima madre! how I wish you spik Italiano."

The Countess drew nearer to him, but her approach only deepened his
perplexity.

"How that poor thing does love me!" sighed the Senator. "Law bless
it! she can't help it--can't help it nohow. She is a goner; and what
can I do? I'll have to leave Florence. Oh, why did I quit Buttons!
Oh, why--"

The Countess was standing close beside him in a tender mood waiting
for him to break the silence. How could he? He had been uttering
words which sounded to her like love; and she--"a widow! a widow!
wretched man that I am!"

There was a pa