it there burn two eyes that would make a holy man
clutch his rosary; and if the flower sways on its stalk
with the movement of a sapling caressed by a summer
breeze;--then the black tulip is precisely the kind of
flower that Loretta bloomed into.

And here the real trouble began,--just as it begins
for every other pretty Venetian, and here, too, must
I place the second pin in my chart.

It all came through Francesco. The older sister
had died with the first child, and this crab catcher
had begun to stretch out his claws for Loretta. She
and her mother still lived with Francesco's father,
who was a widower. The mother kept the house for
all,--had done so for Francesco and her daughter
during their brief married life.

In her persecution Loretta would pour out her
heart to Luigi, telling how they bothered her,--her
mother the most of all. She hated Francesco,--hated
his father,--hated everybody who wanted her to
marry the fisherman. (Luigi, poor fellow, had lost
his only daughter when she was five years of age,
which accounted, I always thought, for his interest
in the girl.)

One morning she called to him and waited on the
quay until he could hail a passing barca and step
from the gondola to its deck and so ashore. Then