t any talk of love pleases me and interests me, and I
can listen to any lover with content. But this talk of children only
tickled me, and I turned to my comrade Guido, that was known to be a
very devoted swain to his lady, and that served her in song and honor
with all fidelity, and pointed Dante out to him now, as if laughing at
the radiant gaze on his face. "Look at the early lover, Guido," I said,
and laughed; but Messer Guido would not humor me by laughing too, and he
told me later that he never found a love-tale a thing to laugh at.

Dante seemed neither to heed nor to be vexed at my mirth. "Laugh if you
like," he said, good-humoredly, "but I learned what love might mean
then, as I peeped over the red breast of the rose at the little maiden.
She was younger than I was; she had hair like woven sunlight, and her
wide eyes seemed to me bright with a better blue than heaven's. Oh, if I
had all the words in the world at my order, I could not truly tell you
all I thought then of that little child."

Guido said very gravely, "A boy may have great thoughts." And he said no
more, but looked steadfastly upon the rapt countenance of Dante.

Now by this time I was all afire with curiosity, for this strange talk
stirred me to wonder, and I entreated Messer Dante very zealously to
tell me who this child was. Dante went on as if he had not heard my
question, telling his tale in a measured voice. "She looked at me and
she looked at my red rose, and I felt suddenly as if that rose were the
most precious gift in the world, a gift for a god, and that I should
give it to her. I held out my hand to her with the rose in it, and she
took the flower, and her fingers touched my fingers as she took it. They
still thrill with the memory."

As I have but just recorded, to my shame, I took all this story of our
friend's in a spirit of mockery. "O father Socrates," I cried, "listen
to the philosopher!" And then, because I was still burning with desire
for more knowledge in this strange business, I repeated my question.
"Who was she?"

And this time Dante heeded me and answered me. "I do not know. I never
saw her again."

Guido's amazement at this answer found speech. "You never saw her
again?" he questioned. "A girl in Florence?"

And indeed it was a strange thing for our city, where one sees every one
every day.

But Dante nodded. "It is strange, but so it is. I never saw her again.
That is nine years ago now."

Guido's eyes were f