Eric shook his head, and said aloud in his outspoken way: "You owe him an apology, Mae, for this morning's rudeness."

Mr. Mann turned quickly. "I am surprised, Eric. Let your sister find out for herself when she is rude."

"Bless me," cried Eric, "what is the row?"

Mae looked determined. "Are you going to the Pincian with us?" she asked.

"No, I am going to stay home."

"Well, good-bye, then. Come, Eric." The door closed behind them.

Mr. Mann stood by the window and watched them walk away. Mae, with her eager, restless, fresh life showing out in every motion; Eric, with his boy-man air and his student swing and happy-go-lucky toss of his head.

Mr. Mann smiled and then he sighed. "That's a good boy, so square and fair and merry--and a queer girl," he added. "Rome isn't the place for her. She must get away, though why I should take care for her, or worry about her, little vixen. I don't see." Still he smiled as one would over a very winning, very wicked child, and shortly after took his hat and went to the Pincio, after all.

Meantime, the brother and sister had walked gaily along, pa.s.sed the Spanish Steps, and were on the Pincian hill. Here, Mae was indeed happy.

The fine equipages and dark, rich beauty of the Italians delighted her, and she and Eric found a shaded bench, and watched the carriages drive round and round, and criticised, and admired, and laughed like two idle children. They bought some flowers, and Mae sat pulling them to pieces, when they caught sight, down the pathway, of two approaching Piedmontese officers.

"O," cried Mae, and dropped her flowers, and clasped her hands, and sprang to her feet, "O, Eric, are they G.o.ds or men?"

The Piedmontese officer is G.o.dlike. He must be of a certain imposing height to obtain his position, and his luxurious yellow moustaches and blue black eyes, enriched and intensified by southern blood, give him a strange fascination. The cold, manly beauty and strength of a northern blonde meet with the heat and lithe grace of the more supple southerner to produce this paragon. There is a combination of half-indolent elegance and sensuous langour, with a fire, a verve, a n.o.bility, that puts him at the very head of masculine beauty. Add to the charms of his physique, the jauntiest, most bewitching of uniforms, the clinking spurs, the shining b.u.t.tons, the jacket following every line of his figure, and no wonder maidens' hearts seek him out always and young pulses beat quicker at his approach.

Mae's admiration was simply rapturous. Utterly regardless of the pretty picture she herself made, of her vivid coloring and sparkling beauty, she stood among her dropped flowers until the two pairs of eyes were fixed upon her. Then she became suddenly aware of her att.i.tude and with quick feminine cunning endeavored to transfer her admiration to some beautiful horses cantering by, exclaiming in Italian, that the officers might surely understand she was thinking only of the fine animals: "O, what wonderful horses!"

The foreign p.r.o.nunciation, Eric's amus.e.m.e.nt, Mae's confusion, were not lost upon the men. Their curiosity was piqued, their eyes and pride gratified. They sauntered leisurely past, only to turn a corner and quicken their steps again toward the bench where Eric and Mae were seated. They found the brother and sister just arising, and followed them slowly.

An Italian is quick to detect secrets. The two had not proceeded far before one said to the other; "Eh, Luigi, we are not the only interested party."

Luigi looked slowly around and saw a crowd of Italian loungers gazing at the little stranger with their softly-bold black eyes full of admiration. He shrugged his shoulders slightly. "Bah, they gaze in that way at all womankind. See, now they are watching the next one," and as he spoke, the boys turned with one accord to stare at a young Italian girl, who pressed closer to the side of her hook-nosed old duenna:

"It is not those loungers that I noticed," replied the other. "Look there," and he waved his hand lightly toward the left, where, under a large-leafed tree, gazing apparently in idleness, stood a young man.

"Ah," said Luigi, still incredulous, "he sees nothing but Rome; he is fresh from over the seas."

"No, no, watch his eyes," replied the other.

They were a.s.suredly fixed, with a keen searching glance, on a little form before them, and as Eric and Mae suddenly turned to the left, the stranger, half carelessly, but very quickly, crossed to another path, from which he could watch them, but be, in his turn, un.o.bserved.

"Jealous," laughed Luigi, shrugging his shoulders again. "Her lover, probably."

"No," replied Bero, "but he may be some time." Then after a moment's pause, "Good evening," he said carelessly. "I am going to say my prayers at vespers. I've been a sorry scamp of late."

Luigi laughed disdainfully and lightly. "You want to get rid of me?

Well, be it so. I don't want to lose my heart over a little foreigner. I have other game. However, Lillia shall not know of it. Addio, Bero." So Luigi went off the other way, and Bero, with a flushed face, followed Mae at a distance, and kept an eye on the stranger, flattering himself that he was quite unnoticed by those sharp, keen eyes. He was mistaken, Norman Mann had seen the officers before they saw him, had watched their footsteps, and had a pretty clear idea of the whole affair.

Mae walked on happily, chatting with Eric, and with that vague, delightful feeling of something exciting in the air. She knew there was an officer behind her, because she had heard the clicking spurs, but she only guessed that he might be one of the two who had pa.s.sed--the taller, perhaps,--which, of course, he was. She had, moreover, in some mysterious way, caught sight of a figure resembling Norman Mann, trying, she thought, to avoid her. Her spirits rose with the half-mystery, and she grew brighter and prettier and more magnetic to the two followers as she tossed her shoulders slightly and now and then half-turned her sunny head.

As for Eric, he was totally unconscious of any secrets. He fancied himself and his pretty, nice, little sister all alone by their very selves, and he went so far as to expatiate on the vastness of the world, and how in this crowd there was no other life that bordered or touched on theirs.

To which Mae replied: "You don't know; you may fall in love with one of these very Italian girls, or my future husband may be walking behind me now." When she had said this, she flushed scarlet and was very much ashamed of herself in her heart.

"We must go home now," Eric replied, quite disdaining such sybilistic remarks. So they left the hill and went down the Steps in the rich afternoon light, and so homewards. Of course the Italian and Mr. Mann still followed them; Norman on the other side of the street, the Italian in a slyer, less conspicuous manner, by taking side streets, or the next parallel pavement, and appearing only at every corner in the distance.

He appeared, however, close at hand, as Mae and Eric turned into their lodgings. His eyes met Mae's. She blushed involuntarily as she recognized him, and at once, in that moment, there was an invisible half-acquaintance established between the two. If they should ever meet again, they would remember each other.

Mae crept off to the kitchen that evening, to beg for another of Lisetta's stories, and quite forgot her walk, the officer, and Norman Mann while she listened to the

STORY OF TALILA.

Talila was a young girl, destined to be a nun. She was a naughty little girl and would make wry faces at the thought, and wish she could be a man, a soldier or sailor, instead of being a woman and a nun; and as she grew older she would dance all the time, and didn't say her prayers very much, and was so bad that the priest sent for her to see him. He told her how wicked she was, and that, too, when she was to be the bride of the church; but she said the church had many, many brides, and she would rather be the bride of Giovanni; and that she loved red-cheeked babies better than beads, and songs were nicer than prayers. Should she sing him such a pretty, gay one she knew? And the priest could hardly keep from laughing at the bright-eyed, naughty, naughty Talila. But he said: "If Giovanni does not want to marry you, will you then become the bride of the church?" And Talila laughed aloud and tossed her head. "Giovanni longs to marry me, Father," she said, "I know that already." But the Father sent for Giovanni and gave him money if he would say he did not want to marry Talila. At first he would not say so, but the Father showed him a purse all full of silver, which Talila's mother had brought him, for it was she who had vowed Talila should be a nun. Then the Father said: "This is yours if you say as I wish, and if not, you shall be cursed forever, and all your children shall be cursed, because you have married the bride of the church." Then Giovanni crossed himself and took the bag of silver, and the priest sent for Talila, and she heard her Giovanni say he didn't want to marry her--she had better be a nun; and she threw up her brown arms and screamed aloud, and fell down as if dead. And afterwards she was very ill, and when she grew better she had forgotten everything and was only a little child, and she loves little children, and is ever with them, but she calls them all Giovanni. They play together by the bay through the long day, and at night she takes them to their mothers, and goes alone to her home. But alas! she never tells her beads, or prays a prayer, and sorry things are said of her--that G.o.d gave her up because she left Him. But the children all love her, and she loves them.

CHAPTER III.

Edith and Mae had a quarrel one morning. Mae's tongue was sharp, but although she breezed quickly, she calmed again very soon. The latter fact availed her little this time, for Edith maintained a cold displeasure that would not be melted by any bright speeches or frank apologies. "Edith," said little Miss Mae, quite humbly for her, as she put on her hat, and drew on her gloves, "Edith, aren't you going out with me?" "What for?" asked that young person indifferently.

"Why--for fun, and to make up. Haven't you forgiven me yet?"

Edith did not reply directly. "I am going out with mamma to buy our dominoes for the Carnival, and to see our balcony. Albert has engaged one for us, on the corner of the Corso and Santa Maria e Jesu. I suppose you can go too. There will be an extra seat. We'll come home by the Pincian Hill."

"Thank you," said Mae, "but I will get Eric and go for a tramp," and she left the room with compressed lips and flushed cheeks. In the hall were Albert, Eric and Norman, talking busily. "Where are you going Eric, mayn't I go too, please?" "I'm sorry Mae, but this is an entirely masculine affair--five-b.u.t.ton gloves and parasols are out of the question."

"O, Ric, I am half lonely." Mae laughed a little hysterically. At that moment she caught Mr. Mann's eyes, full of sympathy. "But goodbye," she added, and opened the door, "I'm going."

"Alone?" asked Norman, involuntarily.

"Yes, alone," replied Mae. "Have you any objections, boys?" Eric and Albert were talking busily and did not hear her. Norman Mann held open the door for her to pa.s.s out, and smiled as she thanked him. She smiled back. She came very near saying, "I'm sorry I was rude the other day, forgive me," and he came very near saying, "May I go with you, Miss Mae?" But they neither of them spoke, and Norman closed the door with a sigh, and Mae walked away with a sigh. It was only a little morning's experience, sharp words, misunderstandings; but the child was young, far from home and her mother, and it seemed hard to her. She was in a very wild mood, a very hard mood, and yet all ready to be softened by a kind, sympathetic word, so nearly do extremes of emotion meet.

"There's no one to care a pin about me," said she to herself, "not a pin. I have a great mind to go and take the veil or drown myself in the Tiber. Then they would be bound to search for me, and convent vows and Tiber mud hold one fast. No, I won't, I'll go and sit in the Pincian gardens and talk Italian with the very first person I meet and forget all about myself. I wish Mr. Mann wouldn't pity me. Dear me, here I am remembering these forlorn people again. I wish I could see mamma and home this morning,--the dear old library. Why the house is shut up and mamma's south. I forgot that, and here am I all alone. It is like being dead. There, I have dropped a tear on my tie and spoiled it! Besides, if one is dead, there comes Heaven. Why shouldn't I play dead, and make my own Heaven?" Here Mae seated herself, for she was on the Pincio by this time, and looked off at the view, at that wonderful view of St. Peter's, the Tiber, all the domes and rising ruins and afar the campagna. "I wouldn't make my Heaven here," thought this dreadful Mae, "not if it is beautiful. I'd not stay here a single other day. Bah no!" and she shook her irreverent little fist right down at the Eternal City.

At this moment, a small beggar, who had been pleading unnoticed at her side, was lifted from his feet by a powerful hand, and a shower of soft Italian imprecations fell on Mae's ear. She sprang up quickly, "No, no,"

she cried in Italian, "how dare you hurt a harmless boy?" She lifted her face full toward that of the man who had inspired her wrath, and her eyes met those of the Piedmontese officer. She blushed scarlet.

"Pardon, a thousand pardons," began he. "It was for your sake, Signorina. I saw you shake your hand that he should leave you, and I fancied that the little scamp was troubling the foreign lady."

Mae laughed frankly, although she was greatly confused. The officer and the beggar boy behind him waited expectantly. "I shook my hand at my thoughts," she explained. "I did not see the boy. Forgive me, Signor, for my hasty words."

The officer enjoyed her confusion quietly. He threw a handful of small coin at the beggar, and bade him go. Then he turned again to Mae. "I am sorry, Signorina, that your thoughts are sad. I should think they would all be like sweet smiles." He said this with an indescribable delicacy and gallantry, as if he half feared to speak to her, but his sympathy must needs express itself.

Mae was, as we have seen, in a reckless, wild mood. She did not realize what she was doing. She had just broken down all barriers in her mind, was dead to her old life, and ready to plan for Heaven. And here before her stood a wonderful, sympathizing, new friend, who spoke in a strange tongue, lived in a strange land was as far removed from her old-time people and society as an inhabitant of Saturn, or an angel. She accepted him under her excitement, as she would have accepted them. No waiting for an introduction, no formal getting-acquainted talk, no reserve. She looked into the devoted, interested eyes above her, and said frankly:

"I was feeling all alone, and I hate Rome. I thought I would like to play I was dead, and plan out a Heaven for myself. It should not be in Rome. And then I suppose I shook my fist."

"Where would your Heaven be?" asked the Piedmontese, falling quickly, with ready southern sympathy, into her mood. Mae seated herself on the bench and made room for him at her side.

"Where should it be?" she repeated. "Down among the children of the sun, all out in the rich orange fields, by the blue Bay of Naples, I think, with Vesuvius near by, and Capri; yes, it would be in Sorrento that I should find my heaven."