of any importance to the world. The Northern blood in Vere demanded
other things of a man than imitations of a seal, the clever driving of
a four-in-hand, light-footed dancing, and songs to the guitar. In
Gaspare she saw more reality than she saw as yet in the Marchesino.
The dawning intellect of her began to grasp already the nobility of
work. Gaspare had his work to do, and did it with loyal efficiency.
Ruffo, too, had his profession of the sea. He drew out of the deep his
livelihood. Even with the fever almost upon him he had been out by
night in the storm. That which she liked and respected in Gaspare, his
perfect and natural acceptance of work as a condition of his life, she
liked and respected in Ruffo.

On the morning after the incident with Peppina, Vere came down looking
strangely grave and tired. Her mother, too, was rather heavy-eyed, and
the breakfast passed almost severely. When it was over Hermione, who
still conducted Vere's education, but with a much relaxed vigor in the
summer months, suggested that they should read French together.

"Let us read one of Monsieur Emile's books, Madre," said Vere, with an
awakening of animation. "You know I have never read one, only two or
three baby stories, and articles that don't count."

"Yes, but Emile's books are not quite suitable for you yet, Vere."

"Why, Madre?"

"They are very fine, but they dive deep into life, and life contains
many sad and many cruel things."

"Oughtn't we to prepare ourselves for them, then?"