think of it, does not go back far enough. My claim
was really staked out before she was born (I am still
in possession--that is--I was last year, and hope to be
this), and her becoming part of its record is but the
sticking of two pins along a chart,--the first marking
her entrance at five and the second her exit at sixteen.
All the other years of my occupation--those
before her coming and since her going--were, of
course, full of the kind of joy that comes to a painter,
but these eleven years--well, these had all of this
joy and then, too, they had--Loretta.

I was in the bow of the gondola when the first
of these two pins found its place on the chart, working
away like mad, trying to get the exact shadow tones
on a sun-flecked wall. Luigi was aft, fast asleep, his
elbow under his head: I never object, for then he
doesn't shake the boat. Suddenly from out the hum
of the children's voices there came a scream vibrant
with terror. Then a splash! Then the gondola
swayed as if a barca had bumped it, and the next
thing I knew Luigi's body made a curve through
the air, struck the water, with an enormous souse,
and up came Loretta, her plump, wet little body
resting as easily on Luigi's hand, as a tray rests on a
waiter's. Another sweep with his free arm, and he
passed me the dripping child and clambered up
beside her. The whole affair had not occupied two
minutes.