on a low, two-story, flat-roofed house,--a
kaleidoscope of color--pink, yellow, and green, with
three rooms and a portico, in which lived Vittorio, a
bird in a cage, a kitten-cat and the Rose of the Shipyards.

It is a long way round to my canal through San
Trovaso to the Zattere and across the Giudecca to
Ponte Lungo, and then along the edge of the lagoon
to this garden and dovecote, but that is the precise
route Luigi, who lived within a stone's throw of the
couple, selected morning after morning. He always
had an excuse:--he had forgotten the big bucket for
my water cups, or the sail, or the extra chair; and
would the Signore mind going back for his other oar?
Then again the tide was bad, and after all we might
as well row down the lagoon; it was easier and really
shorter with the wind against us--all nonsense, of
course, but I never objected.

"Ah, the Signore and dear Luigi!" she would
cry when she caught sight of our gondola rounding
into the landing. Then down the path she would
skip, the joyous embodiment of beauty and grace,
and help me out, Luigi following; and we would stroll
up under the fig trees, and she would begin showing
me this and that new piece of furniture, or pot, or
kettle, or new bread knife, or scissors, or spoon, which
Vittorio had added to their store since my last visit.
Or I would find them both busy over the gondola,--
he polishing his brasses and ferro, and she rehanging