e her hand. But she was weary and silent, full of
gloomy thoughts, which in vain I tried to draw from her. Still, I think
it comforted her to have me thus sit by her.

One morning, while I was idly leaning upon the bridge, and looking
towards the hills with their white marble palaces set amid the beauty of
the Italian spring, one touched me on the shoulder. I turned, and
lo--Lucia! Not any more the Countess, but Lucia, radiant with
brightness, colour in her cheek for the first time since I had seen her
in the Court of the South, animation sparkling in her eye.

"So I have found you, faithless one," she said. "I have been seeking for
you everywhere."

"And I, have I not been seeking for you all these weeks--and never have
found you till now, Lucia!"

I thought she would not notice the name.

"Why, Sir Heather Jock," she returned, "did you not part with me last
night at eleven of the clock?"

"Pardon me," I replied, letting the love in my heart woo her through my
eyes, and say what I dared not--at least, not here upon the open bridge
over which we slowly walked. "Pardon me, it is true that I parted at
eleven of the clock last night with Madame the Countess of Castel del
Monte. But, on the contrary, this morning I have met Lucia--my little
Saint Lucy of the Eyes."

"Who in Galloway taught you to make such speeches?" she said. "It is all
too pretty to have been said thus trippingly for the first time."

"Love," I made answer. "Love, the Master, taught me; for never before
have I known either a Countess or a Lucia!"

"'Douglas, Douglas, tender and true,' does not your song say?" said she.
"Will you ever be true, Douglas?"

"Lucy, will you ever be cruel? I dare you to say these things to-night
when I come to see you. 'Tis easy to dare to say them in the face of the
streets."

"Ah, Douglas, you will not see me to-night! I have come to bid you
farewell--farewell!" said she, as tragically as she dared, yet so that I
alone would hear her. Her eyes darted here and there, noting who came
near; and a smile flickered about her mouth as she calculated precisely
the breaking strain of my patience, and teased me up to that point. I
can easily enough see her elvish intent now, but I did not then.

"I go this afternoon," she said. "I have come to bid you
farewell--'Farewell! The anchor's weighed! Remember me!'"

"Is that why you are so happy to-day, because you are going away?" I
asked, putting a freezing dignity into my t