movements.

And so they floated off from the traghetto--the Madonna that was to be,
into the deepening twilight, while the Veronese, a splendid and
incongruous figure amid these lowly surroundings, leaned against the
paltry column that supported the shrine, wrapped in a delicious reverie
of creation; for he was unused to failure and he had no doubts, though
he had not yet proffered his request.

"To-morrow," he said, "I will paint that face!"

* * * * *

"By our Lady of Murano!" the gondolier cried suddenly. "He spoke to thee
like a queen--and it was Paolo Cagliari! What did he want with thee?"

"Not me, Piero; it was the child. He wished to give him flowers. I knew
he must be great to care thus for our 'bimbo.' It was really he--the
Veronese?"

"The child! Santa Maria! He is not too much like a cherub that the great
painter should notice him!"

The baby threw out his little clenched fist, striking against the
protecting arms that held him closer, his face drawn with sudden pain;
for a moment he fought against Marina, and then, the spasm over, settled
wearily to sleep in her arms.

"Poverino!" said the gondolier softly, while Marina crooned over him an
Ave Maria, and the gondola glided noiselessly to its cadence.