with its ugly traghetto at the farther end, a figure was often seen
wending, with a child held in tender mother fashion, to the campo of the
"Matrice," the mother church of San Donate.

To-day when Marina had returned from Venice she had caught the little
Zuane to her breast with such a passion of tenderness that he looked up
into her face with startled eyes; hers were brimming with smiles and
tears, and with that wise child-knowledge, which is not granted to
earth's learned ones, he put up his tiny hand with a wan smile and
stroked her cheek.

"We will go to San Donato, Zuanino mio," she said caressingly, as he
nestled closer, "and I have _thee_, my bimbo!"

She put the little one gently down as they entered the triangular field
where the grass grew green and long--whiteness of sand gleaming in
irregular patches between the clumps of coarse blades; but to her this
poor turf was something precious associated with that island sanctuary,
restful and strange, and she drew a long breath with a sense of
suppressed pleasure; for sometimes the water, with its shimmering,
uncertain surfaces, wearied her, and unconsciously she craved something
more positive.

The child, with uncertain steps, tottered toward the standard of San
Marco, which floated proudly from the staff that rose from the rude
stone pillar in the center of the campo, where other little ones were
playing; in the corner by the well groups of women, from the cottages
that bounded the campo on one side, were waiting to draw water for the
evening meal, putting down their jugs and going first into the Duomo to
say an ave, that the good Madonna might bless the cup.