outh of their
little haven, the two friendly gondolas glided out amid-stream, in time
to see the crown of light lowered within the dome, for the passage under
the bridge. The reflections played upon the face of the arch until the
massive granite seemed hardly more real than the fairy-like temple of
light itself; and then suddenly, the flickering colours vanished from
the face of the bridge, and were shining upon the broad under-span of
the arch. An instant later it was past and over, and May and Geoffry
were comparing impressions with great earnestness on her part and
undisguised relish on his.

"How pretty the light must be on the Virgin and the Angel on the other
side of the bridge," said Pauline.

"Yes," Mrs. Daymond answered; "I was thinking of that."

Then came a mysterious gliding of the two gondolas, Indian-file, down
dark, narrow canals, where were glimpses, through low passage-ways into
dimly lighted squares. On one of the bridges, as they passed beneath it,
a hollow footstep sounded, and as they looked back they could see a
cloaked figure leaning upon the stone parapet. Now and then a chance
gas-lamp cast upon the wall beside them the shadow of the gondolier's
swaying figure, vanishing then in the black water like a stealthy
suicide. Pauline looked round once or twice, involuntarily, to make sure
that the man was still there, and once May said: "Nanni, could we get
past if we were to meet any one?"

"Si, Signorina," the grave voice made answer; and Uncle Dan felt
agreeably confirmed in his impression that Nanni was to be trusted.

Nearly two hours later, the girls were awakened from their first sleep
by the soft plashing sound of myriad oars. In a moment they were
standing on the balcony in their pretty cashmere wrappers, leaning on
the cushions of the stone balustrade. On came the gleaming colours of
Italy, not a single light extinguished during the long, slow passage
down the Canal; nor did the floating escort seem diminished by so much
as a single boat.

A crimson bengal light was flushing the face of the Salute, as the
luminous apparition halted before it, and a burst of music rose from the
barge. Over yonder, beyond the long, low line of the Giudecca, a pensive
old moon was coming up, slow and mist-obscured, as if reluctant to rise
upon a world so well able to dispense with its light.

"The old moon always goes to your heart," said Pauline.

"Yes; but it will be young again in a week or two," May