ign of the cross, then
stared at Maurice to see why he did nothing. He quickly followed their
example. Maddalena, who was pulling some of the roses from her tight
bouquet, whispered to him:

"Sant' Onofrio will bring us good-fortune."

"Davvero?" he whispered back.

"Si! Si!" said Gaspare, nodding his head.

While Maddalena laid her flowers upon the lap of the saint, Gaspare
bought from a boy three sheets of paper containing Sant' Onofrio's
reproduction, and three more showing the effigies of San Filadelfo, Sant'
Alfio, and San Cirino.

"Ecco, Donna Maddalena! Ecco, signorino!"

He distributed his purchases, keeping two for himself. These last he very
carefully and solemnly folded up and bestowed in the inner pocket of his
jacket, which contained a leather portfolio, given to him by Maurice to
carry his money in.

"Ecco!" he said, once more, as he buttoned the flap of the pocket as a
precaution against thieves.

And with that final exclamation he dismissed all serious thoughts.

"Mangiamo, signorino!" he said. "Ora basta!"

And they went forth into the sunshine. Salvatore was talking to some
fishermen from Catania upon the steps. They cast curious glances at
Maurice as he came out with Maddalena, and, when Salvatore went off with
his daughter and the forestiere, they laughed among themselves and
exchanged some remarks that were evidently merry. But Maurice did not
heed them. He was not a self-conscious man. And Maddalena was far too
happy to suppose that any one could be saying nasty things about her.

"Where are we going to eat?" asked Maurice.

"This way, this way, signorino!" replied Gaspare, elbowing a passage
through the crowd. "You must follow me. I know where to go. I have many
friends here."

The truth of this statement was speedily made manifest. Almost every
third person they met saluted Gaspare, some kissing him upon both cheeks,
others grasping his hand, others taking him familiarly by the arm. Among
the last was a tall boy with jet-black, curly hair and a long, pale face,
whom Gaspare promptly presented to his padrone, by the name of Amedeo
Buccini.

"Amedeo is a parrucchiere, signorino," he said, "and my compare, and the
best dancer in San Felice. May he eat with us?"

"Of course."

Gaspare informed Amedeo, who took off his hat, held it in his hand, and
smiled all over his face with pleasure.

"Yes, Gaspare is my compare, signore," he affirmed. "Compare, compare,
compareddu"--he glan