motion, the coaxingness of the steps, that was deliciously intoxicating
to Mae. The color came to her cheeks, the smile played around her lips,
and when she paused to breathe, she found the Italians showing their
white teeth, and clapping their brown hands in her honor, while the
tallest musician gazed at her from the dark doorway, with the rapt
reverence he gave to all things beautiful and thrilling. She was a new
song to him.

"The Signorina is the veriest Italian of us all," cried Lisetta.

"She honors our Italy," called Mae's last partner.

"Her feet are those of a chamois," said one from the north.

"Nay, she flies," replied another.

They all spoke in their earnest manner, and the praises, that fall in
fulsome flattery in English, were delicate and stimulating as they
slid in soft Italian from their full, red lips. Mae tossed her head
carelessly, but she sipped the praises and found them sweet.

"Now for the Tarantella," said the padrona, so Lisetta shook her
tambourine wildly, and the very prettiest girl of them all, and a big,
brown boy (happy fellow!) began that coquettish bit of witchery. The
pretty girl tripped around and around and wreathed her arms over her
head, and the boy knelt appealingly and sprang up passionately again
and again, until the clock struck ten, and the party broke up. Mae
shook hands with a new friend. He was a stone-cutter, and was soon to be
married, and he poured out all his plans and hopes into her sympathetic
ears, and told of his pretty bride to be, and of her dowry. Mae, in