Beatrice laughed nervously.

“There were a good many things to remember,” she said, “but I wish there had been twice as many—­it was so amusing to make out the list of all your little wants.”

“What a good daughter you are to me, my angel,” sighed the Marchesa.

It was not often that she showed so much, affection.  Possibly she was rarely conscious of loving her child very much, and on the present occasion the emotion was not so overpowering as to have forced her to the expression of it, had she not seen the necessity for humouring the girl and restoring her normal good temper.  On the whole, a very good understanding existed between the two, of such a nature that it would have been hard to destroy it.  For it was impossible to quarrel with the Marchesa, for the simple reason that she never attempted to oppose her daughter, and rarely tried to oppose any one else.  She was quite insensible to Beatrice’s occasional reproaches concerning her indolence, and Beatrice had so much sense, in spite of her small caprices and whims, that it was always safe to let her have her own way.  The consequence was that difficulties rarely arose between the two.

Beatrice smiled carelessly at the affectionate speech.  She knew its exact value, but was not inclined to depreciate it in her own estimation.  Just then she would rather have been left alone with her mother than with any one else, unless she could be left quite to herself.

“You are always very good to me, mamma,” she answered; “you let me have my own way, and that is what I like best.”

“Let you have it, carissima!  You take it.  But I am quite satisfied.”

“After all, it saves you trouble,” laughed Beatrice.

Just then San Miniato came back and was greatly relieved to see that Beatrice’s usual expression had returned, and to hear her careless, tuneful laughter.  In an incredibly short space of time the boat was ready, the Marchesa was lifted in her chair and carried to it, and all the party were aboard.  The second boat, with its crew, was left to bring home the paraphernalia, and Ruggiero cast off the mooring and jumped upon the stern, as the men forward dipped their oars and began to pull out of the little sheltered bay.

There he sat again, perched in his old place behind his master, the latter’s head close to his knee, holding the brass tiller in his hand.  It would be hard to say what he felt, but it was not what he had felt before.  It was all a dream, now, the past, the present and the future.  He had told Beatrice—­Donna Beatrice Granmichele, the fine lady—­that he loved her, and she had not laughed in his face, nor insulted him, nor cried out for help.  She had told him that he was brave and strong.  Yet he knew that he had put forth all his strength and summoned all his courage in the great effort to be silent, and had failed.  But that mattered little.  He had got a hundred, a thousand times more kindness than he would have dared