Eve smiled to herself, gathered up the scattered boughs, and went into the lighted room behind, where her gay companions clustered, appearing at the door thus laden, and with a blush upon her brow.

“Mamma,” said she, her lovely head bent on one side and ringed with gloss beneath the burner, “the fruit is fresh, whether you call it cherry or ciriegia.”  And straightway planting herself at her mother’s feet, taper fingers twinkled among shadowy leaves till the boughs were bare of their juicy burden, and they all made merry together upon the spoils of Luigi.

* * * * *

July was following June in sunshine down the slope of the year, and Eve, pursuing her pleasures, might almost have forgotten that an image-boy existed, had Luigi allowed her to forget.  But he was omnipresent as a gnat.

As she walked from church on the next Sunday afternoon alone, gazing at her shadow by the way, she started to see another shadow fall beside it.  In spite of his festal midsummer attire of white linen, a sidelong glance assured her that it was Luigi; yet she did not raise her eyes.  He continued by her, in silence, several steps.

“Signorina Eve,” said he then, “I went that I might worship with you.”

But Eve had no reply.

“My prayer mounted with yours,—­may he forgive, il padre mio,” said Luigi. “Ebbene! It is not lovely there.  It is cold.  Your heaven would be a dreary place, perhaps.  Come rather to mine!” For they approached a little chapel, the crystallization in stone of a devout fancy, and through the open doors rolling organ, purple incense, and softened light invited entrance.  “It is the holy vespers,” said the boy. “Ciascuno alia sua volta. The Signorina enters,—­forse?”

“Not to-day,” answered Eve, gently.

“Kneel we not,” then faltered he, “before one shrine,—­although,” and he grew angry with his hesitation, “at different gates?”

“Ah, certainly,” said Eve.  “But now I must go home.”

“The Signorina refuses to come with me, then!” he exclaimed, springing forward so that he opposed her progress.  “Her foot is too holy! she herself has said it.  Her eyes are too lofty,—­gli occhi azzurri!!  It is true; stood she there, who would look at the blessed saints?  Ah! you have a fair face, but it is—­traditrice!”

And as he confronted her, with his clenched hands slightly raised and advanced from his side, the lithe figure drawn back, the swarthy cheek, the eager eyes, aglow, and made more vivid by his spotless attire, Eve bethought herself that a scene in public had fewer charms than one in private, and, casting about for escape, quietly stepped across the street.  For an instant Luigi gazed after her like one thunderstruck; then he dashed into the vestibule and was lost in its shadows.

It was at midnight that Eve’s mother, rising to close an open window, caught sight of an outline in the obscurity, and discerned Luigi leaning on the railing below, with one arm supporting his upturned face.  “Ah, the sad day! the sad day!” he was sighing in his native speech.  “Pardon, pardon, Signorina!  Alas!  I was beside myself!”