turn, sent her love to the happy bride, and took a charm from her
watch-chain to go with it, a tiny silver boat, and she sent it with a
hope that some day they might both sail over to America. At which the
bridegroom shook his head very decidedly, and kissed Mae's hand and
bowed himself out. Then, after she had disrobed her of her borrowed
plumes, all the others kissed her hand and bowed themselves out, and
Roberto and Giovanni awaked, and got up from the corner, and stood on
their heads and hallooed as loud as ever they pleased, and the evening
was over, and Lisetta and the padrona and the boys and Mae were alone.

"Oh, oh, oh," cried Mae, "how perfectly perfect. Do you always have such
good times as this?"

"At home, yes," replied Lisetta, folding her hands and smiling. "We have
many a play-day on the bay of Naples." Then she roused herself: "Good
night, Signorina," she said, "keep your ears open."

Mae had barely reached her room when she appreciated Lisetta's last
words. She heard music in the street below. She raised her window; Eric
and Norman lifted the parlor window at the same moment, "Come in here,"
they cried. So in she ran, took a place between them, and they silently
listened to the maskers' serenade. The musicians sang at first the
gayest of tunes, but suddenly, by some subtile impulse, they changed to
quieter minor airs, and sang songs full of tears and passion and love
and tenderness. Then they silently turned to go. Norman Mann touched Mae
on the shoulder. He handed her a bunch of Carnival flowers. They were
Bero's, but she flung them unhesitatingly into the street, leaning far
out to watch the singers catch them and separate them in the moonlight.
They called out loud their thanks--their "Grazie, grazie," as sweet as
any lily just broken from its stem--and as they turned to go Mae saw