owing gravity on the girl's face softened to her
familiar gentleness, for she was touched, as all women who are worthy of
womanhood must be touched by that divine appeal. "Are you in need of
pity?" she said, softly.

And Dante answered, instantly, "Neck-deep in need."

Then he sighed and Beatrice sighed, and she said, very kindly, "In that
case, I pity you," and made again to leave him, and again the appeal in
his eyes stayed her.

"Can you do no more than pity me?" he asked.

Beatrice was smiling now, for all she strove to be serious. "Why, you
are for a greedy garner; you want flower, fruit, and all, in a breath."

I could see Messer Dante's face suddenly stiffen into solemnity; I could
hear Messer Dante's voice, for all its youthful freshness, take upon it
the gravity of age. "For nine years, day in and day out, I have thought
of you," he sighed. "Have you ever thought of me?"

He looked steadfastly at the girl as he spoke, and if there was much of
entreaty in his question there was something of command also, as if he
chose to compel her to tell him the very truth. And the girl answered,
indeed, as if she were compelled to speak and could not deny him, and
her cheeks were as pink as the earliest roses as she answered him:
"Sometimes."

Again Dante spoke and questioned her, and again in his carriage and in
his voice there was that same note of command. "With what thoughts?"

But I could plainly see that if our Dante would seek to give orders to
the girl with an authority that was beyond his years, the girl could
meet his assumption of domination with a composure that was partly grave
and partly humorous and wholly adorable.

She nodded very pleasantly at him as she answered, "Kind thoughts for
the gentle child who gave his rose to a little girl."

I knew very well, as I leaned and listened, that the mind of Dante
leaped back on that instant to the day he had told us of so little a
while before, the day nine years ago when, as the sweet lady said, he
gave his rose to a little girl. I knew, too, that the chance meeting
with Madonna Beatrice on this fair morning must in some mighty fashion
alter the life of my friend. The fantastic love which he, a child of
nine, felt or professed to feel for the little girl of a like age was
now, through this accident, setting his soul and body on fire and
forcing him to say wild words, as a little while back it had forced him
to do wild deeds, out of the very exhilaration of