Not only this:  she had made a pact with Aurora, who declared that a girl baptized in the month of May should have Mary for one of her names.  Mrs. Lindsay would include the name if Aurora would attend the ceremony dressed like the Madonna of an ancient picture of hers, she herself to furnish the dress; and Aurora consented.

This Madonna on a sparkling gold ground had a long veil of dim blue falling over her head and shoulders, and wore a dress of dull-red wool with faint golden reflection.  It was a Raphael dress, and had a band of fine gold embroidery across the neck and round the wrists.

The dress came home the evening before, and was tried on and displayed to the family, with whom was Mr. Edward Churchill.

“There! wasn’t I right?” exclaimed Mrs. Lindsay in triumph.

“Suppose we should scrape out the Madonna and have Aurora painted in her place,” Mr. Lindsay proposed, with perfect seriousness.

“The Madonna is an antiquity,” his wife said, with dignity.

“But her eyes are turned like a Chinese’s,” the gentleman persisted.  “And her expression is cross.”

“I wouldn’t do it for the world,” Aurora declared.  “I feel almost wicked in assuming her dress.”

“Well,” Mr. Lindsay sighed.  “Only don’t assume her squint, and I think you will be forgiven the clothes.”

Every night when Aurora went to her room she extinguished her candle and sat awhile by the open window.  The custom had at first been a poetical one, it was now a sign of trouble.  She had seen that evening but too clearly that one refusal was not enough for Mr. Edward Churchill.

“It is another reason for going away,” she thought.  “I must take myself out of his sight.  And yet I like him so!  Why cannot he be friendly and nothing more?”

The canal was almost deserted, though the Lagoon below was alive with boats.  The water was a dark mirror below.  She could see the stars in it, and the sound of its liquid touch to step and mooring-post was almost inaudible.

As she sat there, a gondola slid along inside the posts and stopped under her window.  A moment after, a chord was struck on the strings of a mandolin.

Ah! a serenade!  It was not her first one by far, and she leaned forward with pleasure to hear it.  The scene was well set for music.  But as the first words fell on her ear she shrank back again.  It was Edward Churchill’s mellow voice, and he sang a serenade of Mrs. Norton’s, in English: 

      Soft o’er the fountain,
        Lingering, shines the southern moon;
      Far o’er the mountain
        Breaks the day,—­too soon. 
      In thy dark eyes’ splendor,
        Where the warm light loves to dwell,
      Weary looks, yet tender,
        Speak their fond farewell. 
  Nita, Juanita, ask thy soul if we should part! 
  Nita, Juanita, lean thou on my heart!