for my easel and began work.

The events that have made the greatest impression
upon me all my life have been those which have
dropped out of the sky,--the unexpected, the incomprehensible,
--the unnecessary--the fool things--the
damnably idiotic things.

First we heard a cry that caused Luigi to drop
canvas and easel, and sent us both flying down the
quay toward the rookery. It came from Loretta's
mother;--she was out on the sidewalk tearing her
hair; calling on God; uttering shriek after shriek.
The quay and bridge were a mass of people--some
looking with staring eyes, the children hugging their
mothers' skirts. Two brawny fishermen were clearing
the way to the door. Luigi and I sprang in
behind them, and entered the house.

On the stone floor of the room lay the body
of Francesco, his head stretched back, one hand
clutching the bosom of his shirt. Against the wall
stood Loretta; not a quiver on her lips; ghastly
white; calm,--the least excited person in the
room.

"And you killed him!" I cried.

"Yes,--he thought I came to kiss him--I did,
WITH THIS!" and she tossed a knife on the table.