"You might take the oranges to your mother," again commenced Tonino.

"We have oranges at home; and when they are gone, I can go and buy
some more."

"Nay, take these to her, and give them to her with my compliments."

"She does not know you."

"You could tell her who I am."

"I do not know you either."

It was not the first time that she had denied him thus. One Sunday
of last year, when that painter had first come to Sorrento, Antonio
had chanced to be playing boccia with some other young fellows in
the little piazza by the chief street.

There, for the first time, had the painter caught sight of Laurella,
who, with her pitcher on her head, had passed by without taking any
notice of him. The Neapolitan, struck by her appearance, stood still
and gazed after her, not heeding that he was standing in the very
midst of the game, which, with two steps, he might have cleared. A
very ungentle ball came knocking against his shins, as a reminder
that this was not the spot to choose for meditation. He looked
round, as if in expectation of some excuse. But the young boatman
who had thrown the ball stood silent among his friends, in such an
attitude of defiance that the stranger had found it more advisable
to go his ways and avoid discussion. Still, this little encounter