beautiful city, hymning the siren it had left perhaps but two hours
ago.

On his pedestal set upon rock San Francesco seemed to be attentive to
the voice. He stood beyond the sheltered pool of the sea that divided
the islet from the mainland, staring across at Vere as if he envied
her; he who was rooted in Italy and deprived of her exquisite freedom.
His beard hung down to his waist, his cross protruded over his left
shoulder, and his robe of dusty grayish brown touched his feet, which
had never wandered one step since he was made, and set there to keep
watch over the fishermen who come to sleep under the lee of the island
by night.

Now it was brilliant daylight. The sun shone vividly over the Bay of
Naples, over the great and vital city, over Vesuvius, the long line of
the land towards Sorrento, over Capri with its shadowy mountain, and
Posilippo with its tree-guarded villas. And in the sharp radiance of
May the careless voice of the fisher-boy sang the familiar song that
Vere had always known and seldom heeded.

To-day, why she did not know, Vere listened to it attentively.
Something in the sound of the voice caught her attention, roused
within her a sense of sympathy.

Carelessness and happiness make a swift appeal to young hearts, and
this voice was careless, and sounded very happy. There was a
deliberate gruffness in it, a determination to be manly, which proved
the vocalist to be no man. Vere knew at once that a boy was singing,
and she felt that she must see him.