that arose therefrom could scarcely be of a cheerful nature, Luigi became silent and morose, and sometimes even, as his companions remarked with surprise—for that had never been usual with him—a trifle quarrelsome.
Nor could he keep himself from going every now and then to get what news he could from old Marta Vannini, who did not receive his visits with much cordiality. Marta had begun to dream ambitious dreams with regard to her niece's future, and was disposed to look upon the young fisherman as a decided nuisance. She told him, however, pretty nearly all that she heard, not being able to refrain from imparting such good news to all who cared to listen. Annunziata was in Paris—then in London—then in Paris again; she was studying hard, and getting on admirably. Her voice had been heard in several of the great private houses—the milordi Inglesi had been enchanted with her—in Paris she had sung before the Princess A., the Due de B., and many others. Her appearance in public had been postponed, not from any incapacity on her part, but because Signor Sassi had wished to reserve for her a more brilliant triumph by withholding her from the public till the next London season, when she was to make her début at the principal opera of that great city.
All this Luigi heard, and went away with a heavy heart. He greatly feared that the society of dukes and princes would turn the head of the simple peasant girl; and in none of her letters, so far as he knew, had she given any hint of a return to her home in the south.
But with November and the arrival of the cool season came great news. Luigi, on entering Marta's cottage on his usual errand, one evening, was as astonished as he was delighted to be met with the intelligence that Annunziata was expected on a visit to her aunt, and that she would actually make her appearance on the following day. Luigi hardly slept a wink that night. He rose early in the morning, scrubbed himself carefully from head to foot—an operation which I am afraid it must be acknowledged that he did not go through everyday—arrayed himself in his best clothes, and then sat indoors doing nothing, till the hour which Marta had named as the probable time of her niece's arrival was past With a great effort of will, he succeeded in keeping within his own house for half an hour longer—for he thought it would not perhaps be quite the thing to pay a lady a visit immediately on her reaching the end of a long journey. Then he set out on the familiar road, and found, to his surprise, that his heart was beating fast, and that his hands were damp and cold. "I never knew I was a coward before," thought poor Luigi ruefully.
When he entered the well-known room there was such a buzzing in his ears, and such a mist before his eyes that he scarcely knew where he was or what he was doing; nor did he, for a moment or two, recognize in the elegantly dressed young lady who was seated by the window the barefooted companion of his childhood. The young lady, however, recognized him, and as she had no reason to feel embarrassed, was not slow in her greeting. She ran up to him, holding out both her hands, with the bright smile that he remembered so well.
"You dear, good Luigi!" she exclaimed, "I knew you would come as soon as you heard I was here. And how are you? And what have you been doing all these long, weary months? Has the fishing been good? Why have you put on your Sunday clothes, you foolish boy? I like you best in your every-day dress. Do you think I have become such a fine lady that my own best friends must dress up when I come to see them? I have not got the clothes I used to wear, or I would put them on while I am here. La zia has killed a fowl, and is gone out to cut salad for my supper—is it not silly of her? Now sit down there, and tell me all the news from the beginning to the end. Where is your guitar? I thought you would bring it, and sing 'La Bella Sorrentina' as you used to do. But perhaps you have found another bella Sorrentina now? "
Luigi was pleased, happy—perhaps, too, a little overpowered. He had hardly expected to be greeted so warmly. But he sat down, as he was bid, and presently began to talk in his deep, soft voice, answering the questions that had been put to him in order.
"There is but one bella Sorrentina" he said; "and as for news, I do not think there is any to tell. You will have heard that old Giuseppe is dead of an apoplexy, and that Marco Naldi is betrothed to the daughter of Masucci, the blacksmith at Torre del Greco. For myself, I have done pretty well in the way of business, thanks be to the saints!—and that I think is all; except that the sun ceased to shine the day you left, signorina, and that we have had neither sunshine, nor flow-
