When the padre had been set down at the convent gate it was past three o'clock. Masaccio was tired almost to the point of tears or speech. The level road stretched white and unshaded and no wind stirred. Vine leaves hung limp above pale clusters of half-ripened grapes. The brave, tasselled heads of the gran turco drooped ingloriously and the broad, red poppies shrivelled. Here and there in the acacia hedges a bee hummed over some sweet, belated blossom, and on every side cicalas sang lustily for joy of the midsummer heat.

Francesco sang even more lustily, as his left hand fingered the leathern bag in his trousers' pocket that contained in coin and paper thirty-two lire. He, like Masaccio, was tired, but the restorative touch of the leather bag set cheeks and eyes a-flame, and he flicked his whip at his poor comrade, who, unconscious of their bettered fortune, crawled ruefully along the blazing road.

Now Francesco was a good master and he knew that he ought to let Masaccio take the shortest road toward food and shelter; and yet, if he turned here, beyond the villa, it would be but scant two miles to the podere where Concetta lived with her grandmother and Uncle Pietro in the little garden-house.

Concetta must at once be told of the thirty-two lire; Francesco could wait no longer, and he turned the aggrieved but submissive Masaccio into the road beyond the villa. "Take your own time, lazylegs," he said condescendingly, as he curled himself upon the seat under the white umbrella, with his hand on his money-bag and his thoughts on Concetta's great eyes.

Masaccio staggered over the vacant road; there was not a creature in sight; man and beast and even bird were hidden away from the deadly sun. Masaccio was too weary to wonder what his master might mean; he only regretted dimly the quiet days when he had stood in the little square of San Donnino with his head in his dinner-bag.

Masaccio lifted his ears and sniffed. A light sound ran along the acacia hedges; the close-set plumes of the gran turco waved softly, rank after rank. Francesco started; he drew a long breath and the air felt cool. "Il temporale!" he muttered. From somewhere, unannounced, suddenly, clouds gathered. Dust rose and whirled on the

white road. The breeze grew to great gusts that tore the hedges and vine-garlands, and bent the proud gran turco to the earth. Francesco drew up the reins and urged on his tired horse; then he stood up and looked off over the valley. Beyond the city, far away, where the plain narrowed in the grasp of the southern mountains, rose a dense black cloud. It seemed to reach from plain to sky, clean-cut and straight as a column, and it moved up the valley, swift and terrible.

Francesco shivered, "Su, via! Get along!" he cried to Masaccio. "It will be a hurricane!" Night seemed to fall suddenly. Forked lightning played across the black cloud-column, and thunder crashed among the hills.

The white road led almost directly toward the advancing terror, yet there would be no hope in turning back. The nearest shelter was Pietro's garden-house and the stables of the podere. But Masaccio was too weary. Not even fear could put speed into his stumbling feet.

And now the whole valley was a-quiver with the lightning, and here and there a bolt seemed to rend the ground. Masaccio threw up his terrified head and plunged heavily forward. Francesco called upon many saints, and made reckless vows to the Madonna. In answer she seemed to send him a thought of hope, for he recalled that, a few rods ahead, beside the road under a walnut tree, stood her very shrine. not Concetta gathered red poppies as they walked together only last Sunday, and laid them at the blessèd feet? The Madonna was a figure in blue and white, he remembered. She held Gesù Bambino upon her knee, and she bent her head a little, smiling always, very pitiful.

Had

The black column was upon them; the city had disappeared; there was no light, save flashes of fire; and bolts seemed to crash at their feet. Masaccio fairly reared in terror. Francesco sprang from the carriage and ran to the horse's bridle, for there, at the roadside, was the walnut tree and Our Lady's shrine.

"Madonna mia! have pity!" cried Francesco.

He turned a beseeching glance toward the shrine. The white figure of Our Lady shone softly through the blackness. A blind impulse seized him to drag himself

and his frightened horse somehow closer to that protecting presence.

The heavens opened in swift, awful fire. There was hideous crashing and splintering, and a moment later Masaccio, trembling from head to foot and tangled in his broken harness, stood and gazed helplessly at the roadside where his master lay crushed beneath a great bough of the walnut tree. From her shattered shrine the Madonna looked down, smiling always, very pitiful.

A mile away, at Pietro's garden-house, little Concetta hid her face in her grandmother's bed and cried for fear.

"Madonna protect thee, Checco mio!" she sobbed.

II

FROM the fig tree in the corner of the garden, Pietro was gathering the last basketful of figs, black and small and wrinkled like himself. "They are not worth the trouble," he said. At the door of the garden-house the grandmother, with an earthen bowl on her knee, sat slicing bright tomatoes and spreading them to dry in the sun. Francesco lay on the ground with a pair of long crutches beside him. His left leg was cut off above the knee and his left hand lacked two fingers. He was in his shirt sleeves, for Concetta, sitting near him on a low stool, was darning a rent in his shabby coat. The lemon-colored kerchief had slipped from her dark curls, and Francesco could see the pretty line of her neck. When the darn was finished, she bit the thread off close, holding the worn sleeve against her lips that trembled a little. Then she spoke pleadingly: "Be content, Checco mio. It is of the Madonna's mercy that thou wert not killed by the lightning. What should I have done then, bene mio?"

"That had been better fortune for thee, little one!" Francesco answered gloomily, "and for me also."

"Do not say it! do not say it! Never say that again, angelo mio!" and Concetta dropped on her knees, and taking Francesco's head in her two little brown hands she covered his hair with kisses. The soft locks were almost as dark as her own and quite as curling. But Francesco would not smile. He drew himself up heavily, and felt for his crutches. "Come with me," he said. “I have something to say to thee."

Concetta helped him with coat and crutches, and they went slowly down the garden, across a bit of vineyard, stripped and golden, across the olive orchard to a stone bench that stood against the crumbling stuccoed wall, and here they sat down side by side. Near Francesco's end of the bench stood a great olive tree, gaunt and hollow and broken. It looked a hundred years old.

When Francesco spoke, it was in the very words he had said on the midsummer Sunday when last they sat here. Concetta's

chief comfort in the cruel months between had been the thought that she should never hear them again.

"Concetta mia, I am going to America." The girl grasped his arm:

"No, no, Francesco. It is not possible. Never, never! Why dost thou say that?" "I am worth nothing here," Francesco said bitterly. "And listen, Concetta. Carlo tells me that in America I can earn money, even without my leg."

"What wilt thou do, Checco? Howwilt-thou-earn money?" The words came slowly, as if each one hurt.

"I shall sing in the streets, for soldi;" and he dug vindictively into the ground with the end of his crutch.

Concetta's voice was like a little cry. "And I? What will become of me? Dost thou think of me, Francesco?"

But Francesco answered brutally, not looking at her. "It will be better for thee. Thou wilt forget: Thou must marry a sound man, not a miserable cripple—a thing useless and broken, half dead, like that old olive tree." Francesco struck the tree with his crutch and startled two tiny lizards that lay a-sunning on the gray trunk. Concetta's big eyes, bright with tears, followed the swift green flight of the lizards up, up to the small, topmost branches that stood out against the sky, above the orchard wall. Among the silvery leaves half-ripened olives dangled, streaked with color, as if stained with dregs of wine.

Francesco turned a sidelong glance upon the girl's lifted face. He began to be ashamed of having hurt her.

As he looked, the pain slipped away from the beautiful lips and eyes, and the whole face lightened with some joyous thought.

"Checco mio," she said, and there was no reproach in her voice, only measureless

“It is Tonino who waits. He is in haste. Checco must come at once! Subito, subito." At the garden gate stood Masaccio, physically none the worse for the shock of that unfortunate August afternoon, but more than ever puzzled in mind. He could not understand why Tonino occupied the box of No. 45, and even less could he conjecture why Francesco, if he rode at all, sat behind in the carriage like a signore, and why his old, gay master no longer sang and whistled, only patted him and called him poveretto in a low, sad voice."

Concetta stood beside the carriage and spoke softly to her lover: "If thou goest, Checco mio, I shall go also."

Francesco shook his head. "Addio, little one; be content," he said kindly.

"If thou goest, I shall go also," said Concetta, but this time she did not say it aloud.

III

THE rain fell steadily. Black streams trickled from the roof of the Roman express, drawn up before the station. Two signori, the only two, closed their dripping umbrellas and vanished into the first-class carriage. But the crowd, pushing back and forth before the doors of the thirdclass carriages, carried no umbrellas, and seemed not to notice the rain. They carried shapeless parcels tied up in shawls, in bits of sacking, even in soaking newspaper; they carried babies and wine bottles, sausages and loaves of bread.

It was a small company, but the train had come from Florence and appeared to be already full. The guards were ruthlessly separating families and friends. "Two places here! one more place! Go to the next carriage! You'll find seats at the rear!" From the door of the waiting-room came sobs and piteous farewells, for this

forlorn band of pilgrims was bound for Naples and the sea, and for that far-off country whose very name is a thing of enchantment and of terror.

At the door of the last carriage Francesco waited his turn, with his little bundle of clothing slung over his shoulder. Suddenly he felt a soft touch on his arm.

"Eccomi, Francesco mio!" said the sweetest voice in the world.

"Dio mio! It is Concetta," he cried, more in terror than in joy.

"Two places here!" said the guard sharply. "There is no more time; make haste!" There was a click of closing doors. Francesco was pushed up the step, not knowing how, Concetta following at his heels. The carriage was full. The guard closed the door. "Pronti!" he shouted. "Pronti!" echoed the guard ahead.

"Come mai, Concetta! How didst thou leave home?" gasped Francesco.

"I said that I should come," she answered simply. "I am going out with the mother of Angela and Maria. They are in the next carriage."

"And the grandmother? What hast thou done with her?"

"La cugina Luigia has come to care for her," Concetta whispered, but the big eyes filled.

A bell rang. "Partenza! par-ten—za!” called the guards, and the train started.

The two were silent, looking out into the twilight wonderingly; for the girl had never made a journey, and the man's farthest adventure had been Perugia. Concetta gazed wistfully into the gray rain, and her lips trembled; Francesco looked at Concetta. She wore a dark shawl, and her lemon-colored kerchief was dulled with the wet, but her hair curled more beautifully than ever and her cheeks were like the pomegranate blossoms above the villa wall in June.

"How pretty she is!" said a Florentine popolana. "And such a sweet voice! He is a beautiful youth, also," said another; "but that leg! What a pity! Dio mio, che peccato! and he so young!"

Francesco's left hand caressed Concetta as she leaned against his shoulder. They were utterly lacking in self-consciousness; they had never heard of conventions, and they thought only of each other. It grew quite dark. Some of their fellow-passen

IV

"BUT you cannot go, I tell you. It is impossible!" The agent almost shouted, but Francesco did not seem to understand.

The emigrants, in line, were moving slowly toward the windows where the passage-tickets were to be secured, but Francesco had been stopped by an official.

"I tell you that you cannot go; the company takes no cripples; step out, you are delaying things." The officer fairly dragged Francesco from his place in the line. Concetta, always at his elbow, slipped out also. There were cries of astonishment, rage, and sympathy, but the crowd pressed from behind and the space closed quickly.

Francesco struggled and shouted like a good Italian. "Let me alone! I will go! I have the money! Not go! Che diavolo! I will go, I say!"

A second officer stepped forward. He was older and he spoke kindly. "It is not possible, my poor fellow; they should have told you. You have lost a leg and your hand is crippled. If we were to let you go aboard it would do no good; you would have all the long voyage for nothing; they would send you back from New York by the next ship."

"But Carlo told me that I could go; I can earn money; I shall sing in the streets; in Nuova York all are rich; they shower soldi. It is for that I go to Nuova Yorkbecause there are many, many rich signori. Carlo has told me that. It will be better than Buonaria. Dio mio! Dio mio! But I must go!"

"Povero ragazzo, poor boy!"

"Che pec

"I am sorry," he said, "but there is nothing else to do. Have patience. Go home; you will find work; the city may help you. Addio!" and he walked away swiftly. There were thirteen hundred emigrants to be inspected before sundown, and the officer had not time for protracted sympathy. The cripple raged for a little; he called upon his saints; he wept. And Concetta? All this time she had not made a sound, she had not even cried, and the great eyes held no tears.

A bench ran along the wall, and Francesco sat upon it, his crutch beside him. His head was buried in his hands and he was crying, quietly now, like a tired child. He had not once noticed Concetta; but now she bent over him; she stroked his forehead; she took off his hat and kissed the tangled curls.

"Do not cry, Checco mio, carissimo! Do not cry. Madonna will not forget us. We shall yet do well."

Francesco started. Beneath the absorbing sense of his own pain stirred at last some thought of the girl who loved him, and whom, in his boyish way, he loved.

"Ma Concetta! come mai? But thou must not stay! Where are Angela and Maria?" He stopped short; for Concetta, with her two hands on his shoulders, was looking at him. First anger, then pain, then wonder looked out from the great eyes; but only for an instant. The beautiful face softened suddenly and the eyes grew tender, even glad; then the dimples showed in her cheeks, and she laughed outright, a low sweet laugh that showed her white teeth. "But Checco, Checco mio! didst thou think I wanted to go? I was afraid even with thee; and without thee -on that terrible sea? No, no, grazia di Dio!" and she hugged her lover's black head in sheer delight.

"But we must find Angela and Maria— I must say good-by. They will be looking for us, and be anxious. Come, Francesco." They passed out upon the great wharf.

and shuddered;

they gazed up

on the tossing gray water, and Concetta clung to Francesco's arm, and was unashamed of her joy. Far away lay the huge New York liner. Lighters were already loading with groups of frightened peasants-inland folk, nearly all of them, in abject terror of this cruel,unknown ocean; and cruel enough it

looked on this bleak morning. The emigrants were everywhere; huddled in miserable groups along the water front, sitting on

their bags and bundles. Many were talking in sharp, excited

voices; some were wailing

afraid; and "Do you wish some matches, Signore?" he asked with the old smile. they need not

-Page 110.

wait for their turn in the ship's lighters. Had they not friends among the many boatmen, plying back and forth in little black boats, between the wharves and the great ships, shouting, laughing, and sing

soon found. They cried over

Concetta, they lamented with Francesco. They left tremulous messages for friends at home. At last, with many tears and piteous fear, they let themselves be

led aboard the lighter that steamed away toward the black hull and

red smokestacks in the distance.

Francesco's brow had

grown dark again with disappointment and wounded pride. He had said addio to youths of his own age, no stronger, no braver than himself, who

were nevertheless sailing away, in full confidence that fortune waited them across the sea and he was left behind, crippled, useless, his life ruined at the

start.

"Let us go away, Checco