The Children of the King

s, lending new contrasts to the scene. And there they slung their kettle on an oar and patiently waited for the water to boil, while the man known as the Gull, always cook i

e spoke, listening with a sort of hurt envy to the little silvery laugh that now and then echoed across the open space and lost itself in the crannies of the rocks. It all hurt him, and yet for nothing in the world would he have turned away or shut his ears. More than once, too, the thoug

r his love; but Bastianello, judging from what he felt himself, fancied that she might have given him some good advice. Teresina's cheeks flushed with pleasure and her eyes sparkled each time he brought her some dainty from the master's table, and she thanked him in the prettiest way imaginable, so that her voice reminded him of the singing of the yellow-beaked blackbird he kept in a cage at home-which was saying much, for the blackbird sang well and sweetly. But Bastianello only said each time that "it was nothing," and then stood silently waiting beside her till she should finish what she was eating and be ready for more. Teresina would doubtless have enjoyed a little conversation, and she looked up

," he began. "You must not be

ing towards the table, and not pleased at bei

wished. You could have talked to her, and she would have liked it. It is easy when a woman is s

t he slowly nodded twic

wrong. What I tell you is true, and you cannot deny it. Afte

answered Ruggi

her. Are you going to begin giving

regular series of presents in jewelry is the natural accompaniment of a well-

, Ruggiero, was suffering from an acute attack of the affections, it had become the latter's chief object to conceal the real truth. It was not so much, that he dreaded the ridicule-he, a poor sailor-of being known to love a great lady's daughter; ridicule was not among the thing

ast, "and if she would not have me when I sp

asked the question almost angrily, for he loved Teresina an

ship biscuit in the other, with which to catch the drippings neatly, according to good manners, in conveying the full fork from the dish to the wide-opened mouth. By and by there was a sound of liquid gurgling from a demijohn as it was poured into the big jug, and the wine went round quickly from hand to hand, while those who waited for their turn munched their biscuits. Some one has said that great appetites, like great passions, are silent

dinner. She cared for nothing and she cared for nobody. San Miniato and Beatrice might sit over there by the water's edge, in the moonlight, and talk in low tones as long as they pleased. There were no tiresome people from the hotel to watch their proceedings, and nothing better could happen than that they should fall in love, be engaged and married forthwith. That was certainly not the way the Marchesa could have wished the courtship and marriage to develop and come to maturity, if there had been witnesses of the facts from amongst her near

r Beatrice. But he saw that the Marchesa, however much she might desire the marriage, would never exert herself to influence her daughter. She was far too indolent, and at heart, perha

inutes he proposed that they should sit down near the water, facing the moonlit sea. Beatrice sat upon a smooth projection and San

u came here, Donna

ing I have never seen before-something I

or

u a good

hings, not

t, for i

hose I

whom you have loved," sugg

vely. "You know too little of me and my life to judge of eit

more or less? Or t

ad, and one has

eve that he was in earnest. It had not been very hard for him either, for there was

irl at last, in a dreamy voice. She was thinking o

h. What has never been li

who could lov

t be the best and the stron

seems im

ction for him, beyond the very solid inducement to marry her offered by her fortune. But he knew that the opportunity must not be lost, and h

am a man, and I have been a soldier. I have lived a life such as you cannot dream of-not worse perhaps than that of many another man, but certainly not better. And I am quite sure that if I gave you my h

agree," said Beatr

athy exists between us. I feel that very much when I am with you, a

he felt somehow that laughter was out of place and that a serious moment in her life had co

re young, you are fresh-you are gifted and unlike the others, and you have a rare charm

would be more than enough.

ot given it to you yet. Some thi

s," answered Beatrice,

nmistakable look of devotion in its rather grave lines. His voice, too, had a new sound in it. Indifferent as he might be by daylight and in ordinary life, the magic of the place and scene affected him a little at the present moment. Perhaps a memo

ith white folded hands, hatless in the warm night, her eyes full

she said, speaking again, "w

ould l

d enough to-ni

between a word and a thought, between belief and mere show, between truth and hearsay-more than that-m

t, how can I guess it, o

u try? Wo

es

ange, after all? Young, imaginative and full of life, she had been brought up to believe that she was to be married to some man she scarcely knew, after a week's acquaintance, without so much as having talked five minutes with him alone; she had been taught that love was a legend and matrimony a matter of interest. And yet here was the man whom her mother undoubtedly wished her to marry,

re child? He felt everything at once, except love. He saw her fortune slipping from him at the very moment of getting it, he felt a little contempt for the part he was playing and a sovereign scorn for his own imbecility, he even anticipated the Marchesa's languid but cutting comments on his failure. One second more, and all was lost-but not a word would come. Then, in sheer despair and with a violence that betrayed it, he seized one of Beatrice's hands in both of his and kissed it madly a score of times. As she interpreted the action, no eloquence of words

ar. But she had no wish to alarm her mother and the quick thought stifled her voice. She tried to withdraw h

lonely, friendless, half heart-broken, to find the one jewel worth living for, the one light worth seeking, the one woman worth loving-and then to long for her almost without hope, and so long? It is long, too. Who counts the days or the weeks when he loves? It is as though we had loved from the

much of a love-speech. Ruggiero's had been better, as a little true steel is better than much iron at certain moments in life. It succeeded very well at the moment, but its ultimate success would have been surer if it had reached no ears but Be

t moment, she would have learned once and for ever the difference between real passion and its counterfeit. But Ruggiero knew where he was and had no inte

. He knew very well that San Miniato was not at all in love, for he knew what love really meant, and he could see how the Count always acted by calculation and never from impulse. Best of all he saw that Beatrice was a mere child who was being deceived by the coolly assumed passion of a veteran woman-killer. It was bitterly hard to bear. And he had

ato's love making. By this time the Count of San Miniato would be cold, and he, Ruggiero, would be handcuffed and locked up in the little barrack of the gendarmes at Sorrento, and Beatrice with her mother would be recovering from their fright as best they could in the rooms at the hotel, and Teresina would be crying, and Bastianello would be sitting at the door of his brother's pri

e?" said San Miniato, sur

trice in a very soft voice. "Did I not leave my hand

t the words, too-only once,

too new to her lips, and a soft blush rose i

r the first time that day. Would sh

ness he could muster into, his last request, with instinctive tact returni

effect in the right place-"I love you," he said, completing the s

away. Then quite suddenly she looked at him o

ent from her seat. "Come-it is time. Mamma will be tired,"

d have had difficulty in ending the scene artis

ands a little tighter a

never moved, nor did he stir a limb as he listen

right, and that none of the moorings had slipped or chafed against the jagged rocks. There he stood, gazing at the rippling water, at the tall yards as they slowly crossed and recrossed the face of the moon, with the rocking of the boats, at the cliffs to the right and left, a

man's soul in return, recking little of all the world besides. But not all know how kind she is, how merciful and how sweet. For she does not heal broken hearts. She takes them as they are into her own, with all the memory and all the sin, perhaps, and all the bitter sorrow which is the reward of faith and faithlessness alike. She takes them all, and holds them kindly in her own breast, as she has taken t

used it in old days-when we shall ask her only to give us the memory of a dear and gentle hand-dear still but no longer kind-of the voice that was once a harmony, and whose harsh discord is almost music still-of the hour when love was twofold, stainless and supreme. Those things we shall ask of her and she, in her wonderful tenderness, will give them to us again-in dreams, waking or sleeping, in the sunlit silence of lonely places, in soft nights when the southern sea is still, in the greater loneliness of the storm, when brave faces are set as stone and freezing hands grasp froze