hairs the two young men amused
themselves and the rest of the company, by feeding the little beggars.
It was an engrossing sport for all concerned, and May, seeing her
opportunity, slipped away to the landing.

[Illustration: "The morning was truly Venetian, soft
and fair as a dream"]

She found the two gondolas moored a few rods down the _rio_, lying close
to the shore in the shadow of the alder bushes that leaned sociably over
the bank. Pietro was lying flat on the floor of his boat, fast asleep;
Nanni, whose gondola was the first she came to, was sitting in the bow
with a book in his hand, which he slipped into his pocket at the
approach of the Signorina. His hat was lying on the floor, and the
flickering shadows of the leaves on his face and figure made a peaceful
impression of summer and happy ease.

"Oh, Nanni; would you please hand me my sketch book?" May asked, as she
came up, and stood on the bank above him. He was already on his feet,
and he stooped for the book, which he handed to her with his curiously
inexpressive manner.

The young girl hesitated a moment, half-abashed by the stillness and the
solitude and the stately deference of this man whose life she was so
desirous of influencing. But she had too much spirit to retreat, and as
Nanni stood before her, grave and respectful, she said, in her carefully
correct, curiously unidiomatic Italian: "Nanni, I am not content to have
you go back to Milan. You were born to be a gondolier. It cannot be that
you do anything else as well, or that you like any other life, really.
Wait," she commanded, as he seemed about to interpose. "You must let me
finish. I want,--I want--" and a sudden confusion seized her; "I want to
make you a present of a gondola."

She paused and looked down upon him, with earnest, supplicating eyes.
She did so dearly long to gain her point; she was so sure, so touchingly
sure that she knew best,--and then, the face before her,--what was it
that it said? There was no grateful flash, only an increased dignity and
reserve.

"Signorina," he said, very gently, with a high-bred restraint of manner
that impressed her strangely, and increased her confusion, adding to it,
indeed, a sense of insufficiency and incompetence that she had never
before experienced: "Signorina,--you mistake me and my life. I am not at
liberty to say what would surely set your mind at rest, but,--I have no
wish to change my life, and,--I cannot accept your gift."

[Ill