The Veiled Lady, and Other Men and Women

by Francis Hopkinson Smith

Then spring comes.

And with it the painter from over the sea.

All the way from Milan as far as Verona, and beyond, there have been nothing but blossoms,—masses of blossoms,—oleander, peach, and almond.

When the train reaches Mestre and the cool salt air fans his cheek, he can no longer keep his seat, so eager is he to catch the first glimpse of his beloved city,—now a string of pearls on the bosom of the lagoon.

Luigi has the painter's hand before his feet can touch the platform.

"Good news, Signore!" he laughs, patting my shoulder. "She is free!"

"Loretta!"

"Yes,—she and Vittorio are back in their garden. Borodini told the whole story to the good Queen Mother when she came at Easter, and the king pardoned her."

"Pardoned her! And Francesco dead!"

"Dead! No such good luck, Signore,—that brute of a crab-fisher got well!"