and then she would press it between the first page and the binding of
her parchment missal. It would keep some of its faint scent, perhaps,
and if any one saw it, no one would ever guess whence it came.

It meant a great thing to her, for it had told her Zorzi's secret, which
he had kept so well. He should know hers some day, but not yet, and her
drooping lids could hide it if it ever came into her eyes. It was too
soon to let him know that she loved him. That was one reason for hiding
it, but she had another. If her father guessed that she loved the waif,
it would fare ill with him. She fancied she could see the old man's
fiery brown eyes and hear his angry voice. Poor Zorzi would be driven
from Murano and Venice, never to set foot again within the boundaries of
the Republic; for Beroviero was a man of weight and influence, of whom
Venice was proud.

Youth would be very sad if it counted time and labour as it is reckoned
and valued by mature age. Some day Zorzi would be no longer a mere paid
helper, calling himself a servant when his humour was bitter, tending a
fire on his knees and grinding coloured earths and salts in a mortar. He
had the understanding of the glorious art, and the true love of it, with
the magic touch; he would make a name for himself in spite of the harsh
Venetian law, and some day his master would be proud to call him son.
There would not be many months to wait. Months or years, what mattered,
since she loved him and was at last quite sure that he loved her?
To-day, that was enough. She would go over to the glass-house and sit in
the garden, by the rose he had planted, and now and then she would go
into the close furnace room where he worked with her father, or Zorzi
would come out for something; she should be near him, she should see his
face and hear his quiet voice, and she would say to herself: He loves
me, he loves me--as often as she chose, knowing that it was true.