one of continuing, happy laughter.

And that evening another of my foolish dreams came true! I sat
in a gondola with the lady of the grey pongee to hear the
singing on the Grand Canal;--not, it is true, at her feet, but
upon a little chair beside her mother. It was my place--to be,
as I had been all day, escort to the mother, and guide and
courier for that small party. Contented enough was I to accept
it! How could I have hoped that the Most Blessed Mother would
grant me so much nearness as that? It was not happiness that I
felt, but something so much more precious, as though my heart-
strings were the strings of a harp, and sad, beautiful arpeggios
ran over them.

I could not speak much that evening, nor could Poor Jr. We were
very silent and listened to the singing, our gondola just
touching the others on each side, those in turn touching others,
so that a musician from the barge could cross from one to
another, presenting the hat for contributions. In spite of this
extreme propinquity, I feared the collector would fall into the
water when he received the offering of Poor Jr. It was
"Gra-a-az', Mi-lor! Graz'!" a hundred times, with bows and
grateful smiles indeed!

It is the one place in the world where you listen to a bad voice
with pleasure, and none of the voices are good--they are harsh
and worn with the night-singing--yet all are beautiful because
they are enchanted.

They sang some of our own Neapolitan songs that night, and last