* * * * *

It was a week afterward, that, as Eve and her mother loitered over luncheon, the door again softly opened, and they saw Luigi standing erect on the threshold, and holding with both hands above the brightly bronzed face a tall, slender, white jar of ancient and exquisite shape, carefully painted, and having a glass suspended within, lest any water it might receive should penetrate the porous plaster.

He did not look at Eve, but marched to her mother, and deposited it upon the floor at her feet.

“For the Signora’s lilies,” said he.

And remembering the silver pieces of the week before, and fearing lest she should really grieve him, the Signora perforce accepted it with admiring words; while Eve ran to fill it from the garden, into which abode of bliss—­as gardens always are—­the long casement of the music-room opened.  Luigi hesitated, his hand upon the door, wistful wishes in his face; then he cast a smiling, deprecating glance at the mother, lightly crossed the floor, was over the sill, and stood beside Eve in the walk.

To right and left the long, straight stems rose in rank, and bore their floral crown of listening lilies, calm, majestic, pure, and only stirring now and then when the wind shook a waft of gold-dust down the shining leaf, or rifled the inmost heart of its delicious wealth of odor; on either side of the path the snowy bloom lay like a fallen cloud.

“It is a company of angels,” said Luigi, brokenly, “a cloud of seraphs with their gold harps!  If they should sing,” hazarded he, “it would be the song the Signorina gave me,—­alas, it is long since!”

“It is a week,” said she, laughing and lingering.

“Eve!” came a warning voice.

“That is the Signorina’s name?” questioned Luigi, as he bent to help her cut the stems.

“Eve,—­yes, they call me so.”

“Certainly I had not thought it,” he repeated to himself.

“Why, what did you suppose it was?” she heedlessly asked.

“Luigia!” said he.  And his low, rapt tone was indescribably simple, sweet, and intense.

Eve did not know what the boy himself was called.

“I wish it were,” said she.  “That is a pleasant sound.”

And rising with her armful, she went in and heaped the jar with honor, while Luigi, pleased and proud, lifted it to the level of the black-walnut bracket.

“Signora, behold what is beautiful!” said he, stepping back.

The Signora looked at the lilies, but Luigi looked at Eve.

They had lunched.  Eve went into the other room to her exercises.  Her mother poured out a glass of wine for the unbidden guest.  He repulsed it with an angry eye and a disdainful gesture.  But then there rose the sound of Eve’s voice just beyond;—­while he stayed, he could listen.  With sudden change from frown to smile, he stepped forward and took the plate.