"Is that enough, signor?" she asked. "I have more."
Looking into the unfathomable depths of those great velvet eyes, the captain would have refused the wealth of Crœsus had she offered it. Her beauty and her independence conquered him.
"Keep your money, child. As long as I run the boat you ride free."
"Grazie, buono signor [Thanks, good sir]. May I go inside? The boat rocks so. I feel—may I lie down just a little while, signor? I have my tambourine and I can sing and dance for you by–and–by when my head—when I am not so dizzy."
"Go inside, child, and lie down. I will look after you soon."
Pappina, catching hold of chairs and benches to steady herself, staggered inside and lay down, dizzy and faint. She was too sick even to think or to wonder where the boat was taking her.
The steamer was filled with people returning from Capri and the wonderful Blue Grotto. Among the tourists was Mrs. Elinor Thurston, a childless American widow traveling abroad with friends, seeking some new interest from day to day—anything to make her forget the loss of her husband and her only child. She noticed Pappina's pale, beautiful face and her glorious eyes. There was something about the child that reminded Mrs. Thurston of her boy. She watched Pappina intently as the little girl threw herself on the floor. The forlorn figure interested her, lying with her tambourine tightly clasped in her hands.
"Poor child!" she murmured softly.
"Such a picture!" exclaimed one of the tourists. "I must take a snap–shot of this typical little Italian beauty."
Pappina, hearing voices near her, opened her eyes. Her glance fell upon the sweet face of Mrs. Thurston, who sat looking kindly at her. The child smiled faintly, closed her eyes again, and was asleep.