gone, God knows where, to-morrow. They told no one of their finds, and
there has never been a Gambucino well off. It was not for the gold they
cared; it was the wandering about looking for it in the stony country
that got into them and wouldn't let them rest; so that no woman yet born
could hold a Gambucino for more than a week. That's what the song says.
It's all about a pretty girl that tried hard to keep hold of a Gambucino
lover, so that he should bring her lots of gold. No fear! Off he went,
and she never saw him again."

"What became of her?" she breathed out.

"The song don't tell. Cried a bit, I daresay. They were the fellows:
kiss and go. But it's the looking for a thing--a something . . .
Sometimes I think I am a sort of Gambucino myself."

"No woman can hold you, then," she began in a brazen voice, which
quavered suddenly before the end.

"No longer than a week," he joked, playing upon her very heartstrings
with the gay, tender note of his laugh; "and yet I am fond of them all.
Anything for a woman of the right sort. The scrapes they got me into,
and the scrapes they got me out of! I love them at first sight. I've
fallen in love with you already, Miss--Bessie's your name--eh?"

She backed away a little, and with a trembling laugh:

"You haven't seen my face yet."

He bent forward gallantly. "A little pale: it suits some. But you are a
fine figure of a girl, Miss Bessie."