angry, and when you are angry you are stupid. I
carried that girl in my arms when she was a baby!
I have watched over her ever since. A wench! Not
one of your own daughters has a heart so white. If
Vittorio is so great a coward as to listen to their talk
I'll keep her for his betters."

All this snapped out of Luigi's eyes and rolled
from under his crisp mustache as he repeated the outbreak
to me. What the end might be neither the
Giudecca nor San Giuseppe could decide. The Borodinis
were proud; Vittorio's father was one of the
gondoliers belonging to the palace and always rowed
the good Queen Margherita when she came incognito
to Venice,--a post which greatly enhanced his social
station. Vittorio was the only son, and already a
member of the traghetto, young as he was. But
then, were there any girls better than Loretta, or as
good? She helped her mother; she paid her share
of the rent to Francesco's father; she gave to the poor
box. That she was the sunshine of the Quarter every
one knew who heard her sweet, cheery voice. As to
her family, it was true that her mother was a Sicilian
who boiled over sometimes in a tempest of rage, like
Vesuvius,--but her father had been one of them.
And then again, was she not the chosen friend of
Luigi, the Primo, and of the crazy painter who
haunted the canal? The boy and his father might
be glad, etc., etc.