THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
"Beautiful, beautiful!" murmured the girl at his side. "And I have lived to see it!"
Several times on the way to the hotel she grasped his arm to call his attention (as if that were necessary) to some enchanting marble, the towers rosal in the flood of sunset, the base of it dark and gloomy like Alpine ice. Each time she touched him he trembled. Sometimes he found it very hard to be so close to her.
"Oh, we mustn't stay indoors here; we must be out in the sunshine every minute. I'm going to love it. I don't want to go any farther. I want to stay here all the rest of my life."
They were keen to ride around the canals that night; and William engaged a gondolier immediately after dinner. After they had listened to the barge concerts (and the inevitable toreador song), they let the man at the sweep go whither he listed. He slid into the Giudecca and wound in and out among the destroyers, the liners, sloops, yachts, and lighters. They were gliding under the stern of a handsome sea-going yacht, white as frost in this incomparable moonlight.
William slowly spelled out the name.
"E-l-s-a; Elsa, New York. Well, here's a boat all the way from the old burg."
A strange thing happened. The girl gave a little cry and huddled down close to the black cushions of the gondola.
