Italian. May she never leave us."

"Yes, yes," called Lisetta, lifting high her glass. "Yes, yes," cried
all, and Mae drank as heartily as any of them. Then she shook her head
and gazed very scornfully down on her dark, stylish clothes. "I am not
thoroughly Italian yet," she cried. "Here, and here, and here," cried
one and another, proffering bits of their own gay costumes, and in a
moment Mae had received all sorts of tributes--a string of red beads
from one, a long sash from another, a big-balled stiletto from a third,
so that she was able from the gleanings to trim herself up into at least
a grotesque and un-American Carnival figure. Then the Italians with
their soft tongues began to flatter her.

"How lovely the Signorina would look in a contadina costume--the home
costume," said Lisetta gravely. "It is so beautiful, is it not?" And
then those two or three privileged ones, who had seen Lisetta's
home, went into ecstasies over its many charms. Lisetta, next to the
Signorina, was the heroine of the occasion. She was from a distance, was
handsome and clever, and the padrona gave glowing accounts of her full
purse, and two pretty donkeys, and house by the sea.

They had a very gay time. Such singing, and then dancing and frolicking,
and such a feline softness in all their gaiety. None of the German or
Saxon bullying, and barking and showing of teeth; in no wise a game of
dogs, which always ends in a fight; but a truly kittenish play, with
sharp claws safely tucked out of sight behind the very softest paws,
and a rich, gentle curve of motion, inexpressibly witching to our little
northern maiden, who was fast losing her head amid it all. Mae did not
reflect that felines are treacherous. She only drew a quick, mental
picture of the parlor on the other side of the hall, which she compared