or has lain on a pallet in one corner of her cell.
Once in a while she presses her lips to a ring on her
left hand, her face lighting up. Sometimes she
breaks out into a song, continuing until the keeper
checks her.

Then spring comes.

And with it the painter from over the sea.

All the way from Milan as far as Verona, and
beyond, there have been nothing but blossoms,--
masses of blossoms,--oleander, peach, and almond.

When the train reaches Mestre and the cool salt air
fans his cheek, he can no longer keep his seat, so eager
is he to catch the first glimpse of his beloved city,--
now a string of pearls on the bosom of the lagoon.

Luigi has the painter's hand before his feet can
touch the platform.

"Good news, Signore!" he laughs, patting my
shoulder. "She is free!"

"Loretta!"

"Yes,--she and Vittorio are back in their garden.
Borodini told the whole story to the good Queen
Mother when she came at Easter, and the king pardoned