The Veiled Lady

hom all sorts of stories were told-none to her credit; big tender-hearted Luigi Zanaletto, prince of gondoliers, and last, and this time least, a staid old painter who works in a gondola

art of every girl along his native Giudecca pitapatting morning, noon, and night. He enjoys the distinguished name of Vittorio Borodini, and is the descendant of a family of gondoliers-of the guild of the Castellani-who can trace their ancestral calling back some two hundred years (so can Luigi; but then Luigi never speaks of it, and the Borodinis always do). Bei

o, the pride and hope of his father. He had seen the "Rose of the Shipyards," as she was now called, pass the traghetto of the Molo,

zzo of the Doges, but it had gone through the young gondolier and out on the other side, leaving a wound that nothing would heal. S

that was the end of it: not for an intrigue-he was not constructed along those lines-but with a ring and a priest and all the rest of it. The main difficulty was to find some one who knew her. He would not,-could no

piece of news which his informer was convinced would end the projected intrigue of the young gondolier, then and there and for all time, Vittorio laughed so

me face, shot his gondola alongside mine and leaned over to whisper something in Luigi's ear. And that was why the girl in her long black shawl stopped, and why Luigi immediately changed gondolas and made for the quay, and why they all talked together for a moment,

the subjects along the canal, it is not surprising that a love affair reaches its full growth between two suns. Not since the day she

oft light in his eyes, a smile lingering around

is it not?" was all he said, and a

population-had become convinced that Loretta was lost to the Quarter. Unless a wedding ring was to end it all Vitt

he gossips solve the problem. He had had tr

he had blazed out-"and you, I understand, brough

in my arms when she was a baby! I have watched over her ever since. A wench! Not one of your own daughters ha

-a post which greatly enhanced his social station. Vittorio was the only son, and already a member of the traghetto, young as he was. But then, were there any girls better than Loretta, or as good? She helped her mother; she paid her share of the rent to Francesco's father; she gave to the poor box. That she was the sunshine of the Quarter every one knew w

do, and when and where to do it. In the meantime the Riva was a pathway of rose-tinted clouds constructed for the especial use of two angels, one of whom

untled person

when he looked closely into the pure eyes of the girl, and that then, like the others, he would

ed Francesco's mouth and set his brain in a whirl. In his astonishment he had long talks wi

could but guess at. At another time he and his associates concocted a scheme by which Vittorio's foot was to slip as he was leaving Loretta at the door, and he be fished out of the canal with his pretty clothes begrimed with mud;-a scheme which was checked when they began to examine t

oal points, handing me a fresh brush, squeezing out a tube of color on my palette: nothing like a romance to a

irst: She had lived in Francesco's house; she had had a dozen young fishermen trapesing after her; her mother, too,

s, and always with a wave of her hand to me as they passed: down to Malamocco on Sundays with another girl as chaperon,

went to San Rosario up the Giudecca. And the Borodinis turned out in great force, and so did all the other 'inis, and 'olas, and 'ninos-dozens of them-and in came Loretta, so beautiful that everybody held his breath; and we all gathered about the altar, and good Father Garola stepped down and took their hands; and two candles we

-built young fellow ran past me, crouched to the pavement, and hid himself behind one of the tall columns. Something in h