be loved."

"And you, young seer, that are of the moorland and the heather," she
said, "where would you be in such a city?"

"As for me," I said, "I would stand far off and watch you as you passed
by."

"Ah, Messer Dante Alighieri, do not make a mistake. I am no Beatrice. I
love not chill aloofness. I am but Lucia, here to-day and gone
to-morrow. But rather than all rhapsodies, I would that you were just my
friend, and no further off than where I can reach you my hand and you
can take it."

So saying, because we came to the little bridge where the pines meet
overhead, she reached me her hand at the word; and as it lay in mine I
stooped and kissed it, which seemed the most natural thing in the world
to do.

She looked at me earnestly, and I thought there was a reproachful pity
in her eyes.

"Friend of mine, you will keep your promise," she said. I knew well
enough what promise it was that she meant.

"Fear not," I replied; "I promise and I keep."

Yet all the while my heart was busy planning how through all the future
I might abide near by her side.