he leaf," she
said, and stood by the post till long after the boy had disappeared.
The slight emotion of fun had restored to her some of her lost human
sensations, and she looked about for a place where to indulge them
undisturbed. One of the bridges was in sight She yearned for the
solitude of the wharf beside it, and hurried to the steps. To descend
she had to pass a street-organ and a small figure bent over it. "Sei
buon' Italiano?" she said. The answer was a surly "Si." Emilia cried
convulsively "Addio!" Her brain had become on a sudden vacant of a
thought, and all she knew was that she descended.

CHAPTER XLI

"Sei buon' Italiana?"

Across what chasm did the words come to her?

It seemed but a minutes and again many hours back, that she had asked
that question of a little fellow, who, if he had looked up and nodded
would have given her great joy, but who kept his face dark from her
and with a sullen "Si" extinguished her last feeling of a desire for
companionship with life.

"Si," she replied, quite as sullenly, and without looking up.

But when her hand was taken and other words were uttered, she that had
crouched there so long between death and life immovable, loving
neither, rose possessed of a passion for the darkness and the void, and
struggling bitterly with the detaining hand, crying for instant death.
No strength was in her to support the fury.

"Merthyr Powys is with you," said her friend, "and will never leave
you."

"Will never take me up there?" Emilia pointed to the noisy level above
them.

"Listen, and I will tell you how I have found you," replied Merthyr.

"Don't force me to go up."

She spoke from the end of her breath. Merthyr feared that it was more
than misery, even madness, afflicting her. He sat on the wharf-bench
silent till she was reassured. But at his first words, the eager
question came: "You will not force me to go up there?"

"No; we can stay and talk here," said Merthyr. "And this is how I have
found you. Do you suppose you have been hidden from us all this time?
Perhaps you fancy you do not belong to your friends? Well, I spoke to
all of your 'children,' as you used to call them. Do you remember? The
day before yesterday two had seen you. You said to one, 'From Savoy or
Piedmont?' He said, 'From Savoy;' and you shook your head: 'Not looking
on Italy!' you said. This night I roused one of them, and he stretched
his finger down the steps, saying that you had gone d