Mae had barely reached her room when she appreciated Lisetta’s last words.  She heard music in the street below.  She raised her window; Eric and Norman lifted the parlor window at the same moment, “Come in here,” they cried.  So in she ran, took a place between them, and they silently listened to the maskers’ serenade.  The musicians sang at first the gayest of tunes, but suddenly, by some subtile impulse, they changed to quieter minor airs, and sang songs full of tears and passion and love and tenderness.  Then they silently turned to go.  Norman Mann touched Mae on the shoulder.  He handed her a bunch of Carnival flowers.  They were Bero’s, but she flung them unhesitatingly into the street, leaning far out to watch the singers catch them and separate them in the moonlight.  They called out loud their thanks—­their “Grazie, grazie,” as sweet as any lily just broken from its stem—­and as they turned to go Mae saw that each one was decked with a sprig from the bouquet, pulled through his button-hole or the riband of his hat.

Only the tallest musician, who walked somewhat apart, carried his flower tightly clasped in his hand, and now and again he raised it to his lips.  He probably dreamed over it that night, and played his dream out in a gentle, wistful, minor adoration before the Madonna at the Quattro Fontane the next morning.

O, the dreams and poems and songs without words that drop into our lives from the sudden flash of stranger eyes, or the accidental touch of an unknown hand, or the tender warmth of a swift smile!  And if our eyes, our touch, our smiles may only have floated off in like manner—­as dreams and poems and melody—­to give added rhythm and harmony to other lives.

Mae drew a long sigh, one of those delightful, contented sighs, with a smile wrapped up in it.  “I am glad you are so happy,” said Norman Mann, smiling down at her.  When Norman spoke like that Mae felt only, O, so very content.  She quite forgot all grudges against him; she would have liked just at that moment to have the world stand quite still.  This was very different from the ordinary Mae.  Usually she longed that it might go faster, and would put her pink and white ear quite close to the brown earth to hear if it were turning as swiftly as ever it could.  “I like it to hurry, hurry, hurry,” said eager, restless Mae.  “I love to live quickly and see what’s coming next.”

But Mae was not in that mood to-night.  She leaned out of the window all untroubled.  If the sun could stand still off behind the world—­as he is now—­and the moon could stand still right before us—­as she is now—­and we could stay right here, we three.  Why, no, Eric has gone in and is walking up and down nervously.  Thus Mae thought, and was quiet.  “What are you thinking about?” asked Norman.  She told him naturally, with her eyes on his until she reached the words “and we.”  Then her eyes fell, and she paused.