It was the first music night of the season, and the Park had become a vast potbouilli of Italy’s children, with a salting from the Baxter Street Ghetto and a peppering of “Chimmies” and “Mamies” from the old Fourth Ward. Armando and Marianna made their way through the seething mass about the band, deaf to the rag-time melody that filled the sultry air and without eyes for the gorgeous red coats of the musicians. He was telling her how from the blackness of his despair the light of knowledge had suddenly broken, and how in the bitterness of his exile he had found the sweet of content. Far from the band stand, they crowded on to a bench beside two women with yellow babies at their breasts, and Armando continued:
“It was last night, and I was here alone, with only the stars for companions. All Mulberry was asleep. First I thought only of myself, and my heart was heavy. Then the points of gold in the sky seemed to whisper—to whisper of you, my precious. After that I was happy. Do you know why? Ah, it was because I had made up my mind.”
“Yes,” she repeated eagerly; “you made up your mind to——”
“Go home.”
“And I?”
“You go with me. There; do you not see now why I am happy?”
“Madonna-Maria be glorified!” she cried, and the women by their side exchanged glances and grunts. “When?”
“By the first ship for Genoa.”
“When is that?”
“Some day next week.”