Maria Dolores had listened, smiling. Now she gave a gay little laugh,
and then for a moment mused. "That is a very curious bit of history,"
she said, in the end. "How ever did it come to your knowledge?"

Annunziata shrugged. "Oh," she answered, "everybody knows that. I have
known it for years. My grandmother who lived in Milan told it to me.
Doesn't the water look cool and pleasant?" was her abrupt digression, as
she returned her gaze to the Rampio. "When it is hot like this, I
should like to lie down in the water, and go to sleep. Wouldn't you?"

"I'm not so sure," said Maria Dolores. "I should rather fear I might be
drowned."

"Oh, but that wouldn't hurt," said Annunziata, with security. "To be
drowned in such beautiful green water, among all those beams of light,
would be nice."

"Perhaps you are not aware," said Maria Dolores, "that when people are
drowned they die?"

"Oh, yes, I know that," said Annunziata. "But"--she raised calm pellucid
eyes--"wouldn't you like to die?"

"Certainly not," said Maria Dolores, a shadow on her face.

"I would," said Annunziata, stoutly. "It must be lovely to die."

"Hush," Maria Dolores rebuked her, frowning. "You must not say such
things."