she resembled you in nothing—­nothing!  But she used to laugh at me—­she trampled on my life and spoiled it—­she broke my heart!  It is all past now, I never think of her, only your laughter reminded me—­there!” And I took her hands and kissed them.  “I have told you the story of my early folly--forget it and forgive me!  It is time you prepared for your journey, is it not?  If I can be of service to you, command me—­you know where to send for me.  Good-bye! and the peace of a pure conscience be with you!”

And I laid my burning hand on her head weighted with its clustering curls of gold.  She thought this gesture was one of blessing. I thought—­God only knows what I thought—­yet surely if curses can be so bestowed, my curse crowned her at that moment!  I dared not trust myself longer in her presence, and without another word or look I left her and hurried from the house.  I knew she was startled and at the same time gratified to think she could thus have moved me to any display of emotion—­but I would not even turn my head to catch her parting glance.  I could not—­I was sick of myself and of her.  I was literally torn asunder between love and hatred—­love born basely of material feeling alone—­hatred, the offspring of a deeply injured spirit for whose wrong there could scarce be found sufficient remedy.  Once out of the influence of her bewildering beauty, my mind grew calmer—­and the drive back to the hotel in my carriage through the sweet dullness of the December air quieted the feverish excitement of my blood and restored me to myself.  It was a most lovely day—­bright and fresh, with the savor of the sea in the wind.  The waters of the bay were of a steel-like blue shading into deep olive-green, and a soft haze lingered about the shores of Amalfi like a veil of gray, shot through with silver and gold.  Down the streets went women in picturesque garb carrying on their heads baskets full to the brim of purple violets that scented the air as they passed—­children ragged and dirty ran along, pushing the luxuriant tangle of their dark locks away from their beautiful wild antelope eyes, and, holding up bunches of roses and narcissi with smiles as brilliant as the very sunshine, implored the passengers to buy “for the sake of the little Gesu who was soon coming!”

Bells clashed and clanged from the churches in honor of San Tommaso, whose festival it was, and the city had that aspect of gala gayety about it, which is in truth common enough to all continental towns, but which seems strange to the solemn Londoner who sees so much apparently reasonless merriment for the first time.  He, accustomed to have his reluctant laughter pumped out of him by an occasional visit to the theater where he can witness the “original,” English translation of a French farce, cannot understand why these foolish Neapolitans should laugh and sing and shout in the manner they do, merely because they are glad to be alive.  And after much dubious consideration,