than beasts of
burden, accustomed to act as porters, bearing about on their heads great
loads of stone, wood, water, and baskets of oranges in the shipping
season. She could not have been forced to such labor, or she never would
have had the time to work that wonderful coverlet.

Giuseppe was an honest and rather handsome young fellow of Sorrento,
industrious and good-natured, who did not bother his head much about
learning. He was, however, a skillful workman in the celebrated inlaid
and mosaic woodwork of the place, and, it is said, had even invented
some new figures for the inlaid pictures in colored woods. He had a
little fancy for the sea as well, and liked to pull an oar over to Capri
on occasion, by which he could earn a few francs easier than he could
saw them out of the orangewood. For the stupid fellow, who could not
read a word in his prayer-book, had an idea of thrift in his head, and
already, I suspect, was laying up liras with an object. There are one
or two dandies in Sorrento who attempt to dress as they do in Naples.
Giuseppe was not one of these; but there was not a gayer or handsomer
gallant than he on Sunday, or one more looked at by the Sorrento girls,
when he had on his clean suit and his fresh red Phrygian cap. At least
the good Fiammetta thought so, when she met him at church, though I feel
sure she did not allow even his handsome figure to come between her and
the Virgin. At any rate, there can be no doubt of her sentiments after
church, when she and her mother used to walk with him along the winding
Massa road above the sea, and stroll down to the shore to sit on the
greensward over the Temple of Hercules, or the Roman Baths, or the
remains of the villa of C. Fulvius Cunctatus Cocles, or whatever those
ruins subterranean are, there on the Capo di Sorrento. Of course, this
is mere conjecture of mine. They may have gone on the hills behind the
town instead, or they may have stood leaning over the garden-wall of
her mother's little villa, looking at the passers-by in the deep lane,
thinking about nothing in the world, and talking about it all the sunny
afternoon, until Ischia was purple with the last light, and the olive
terraces behind them began to lose their gray bloom. All I do know is,
that they were in love, blossoming out in it as the almond-trees do here
in February; and that all the town knew it, and saw a wedding in the
future, just as plain as you can see Capri from the heights above th