motion of her still unwashed
hands. "If I tell yer 'bout her, yer'll tell her I told yer. P'raps
sometime, if yer ever go to New York, yer might see her; and she
wouldn't like it."

"How do you know but what I have seen her? I've just come from there."

Aileen looked her surprise again. "That's queer, for I've just landed
from New York meself."

"So I understood; does the marchioness live there too?"

She shook her head. "I ain't going to tell yer; but I'll tell yer 'bout
some others I know."

"That live in New York?"

"Wot yer giving me?" She laughed merrily; "they live where the Dagos
live, in Italy, yer know, and--"

"Italy? What are they doing over there?"

"--And--just yer wait till I'll tell yer--they live on an island in a
be-ee-u-tiful lake, like this;" she looked approvingly at the liquid
mirror that reflected in its rippleless depths the mountain shadow and
sunset gold; "and they live in great marble houses, palaces, yer know,
and flower gardens, and wear nothing but silks and velvet and pearls,
ropes,--yer mind?--ropes of 'em; and the lords and ladies have concerts,
yer know, better 'n in the thayertre--"

"What do you know about the theatre?" Champney was genuinely surprised;
"I thought you came from an orphan asylum."

"Yer did, did yer!" There was scorn in her voice. "Wot do I know 'bout
the thayertre?--Oh, but yer green!" She broke into another merry laugh
which, together with the patronage of her words and certain unsavory
memories of his own, nettled Champney more than he would have cared to
acknowledge.

"Better 'n the thayertre," she repeated emphatically; "and the lords
serenade the ladies--Do yer know wot a serenade is?" She interrupted
herself to ask the question with a strong doubt in the interrogation.

"I've heard of 'em," said Champney meekly; "but I don't think I've ever
seen one."

"I'll tell yer 'bout 'em. The lords have guitars and go out in the
moonlight and stand under the ladies' windys and play, and the ladies
make believe they haven't heard; then they look up all round at the moon
and sigh _awful_,--" she sighed in sympathy,--"and then the lords begin
to sing and tell 'em they love 'em and can't live without a--a token.
I'll bet yer don't know wot that is?"

"No, of course I don't; I'm not a lord, and I don't live in Italy."

"Well, I'll tell yer." Her tone was one of relenting indulgence for his
ignorance. "Sometimes it's a bow that they make out of the ribbon their