ones.

She nodded girlishly, and I admit, as a critic, adorably.

"Yes," she said, "that is just the reason."

We were now in the Public Gardens, and walking along a more quiet path.

"Good-bye, then," I said, holding out my hand.

"No, indeed!" she said; "I shall not allow you to kiss my hand in
public!"

And she put her hands behind her with a small, petulant gesture. "Now,
then!" she said defiantly.

With the utmost dignity I replied--"Indeed, I had no intention of
kissing your hand, Madame; but I have the honour of wishing you a very
good day."

So lifting my hat, I was walking off, when, turning with me, Lucia
tripped along by my side. I quickened my pace.

"Stephen," she said, "will you not forgive me for the sake of the old
time? It is true I am going away, and that you will not see me
again--unless, unless--you will come and visit me at my country house.
Stephen, if you do not walk more slowly, I declare I shall run after you
down the public promenade!"

I turned and looked at her. With all my heart I tried to be grave and
severe, but the mock-demure look on her face caused me weakly to laugh.
And then it was good-bye to all my dignity.

"Lucy, I wish you would not tease me," I said, still more weakly.

"Poor Toto! give it bon-bons! It shall not be teased, then," she said.

Before we parted, I had promised to come and see her at her country
house within ten days. And so, with a new brightness in her face, Saint
Lucy of the Eyes came back to my heart, and came to stay.

It was mid-April when I started for Castel del Monte. It was spring, and
I was going to see my love. The land about on either side, as I went,
was faintly flushed with peach-blossom shining among the hoary stones.
By the cliff edge the spiny cactus threw out strange withered arms. A
whitethorn without spike or spine gracefully wept floods of blonde
tears.

At a little port by the sea-edge I left the main route, and fared onward
up into the mountains. A mule carried my baggage; and the muleteer who
guided it looked like a mountebank in a garb rusty like withered leaves.
Like withered leaf, too, he danced up the hillside, scaling the long
array of steps which led through the olives toward Castel del Monte.
Some of his antics amused me, until I saw that none of them amused
himself, and that through all the contortions of his face his eyes
remained fixed, joyless, tragic.

Castel del Monte sat on the hill-top, eminent, far-beholdin