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RTURO complained of this gently as they stood in the cloister for a few moments at parting, upon their return. Twilight had fallen, the air was still; the only sound they heard, except a gurgle of water in the pink marble fountain, was a lonely melody played upon a reed pipe far away and high above them, on a cliffside rising behind the narrow town. It was the Pastorale; and Arturo's sigh was as wistful as the tune.

"You were so kind last night," he said. "It was heaven for me, even before you sang. To-day you drop me over the precipice again. I never can know what I do to displease you."

"Nothing at all, Arturo."

"Then why do you treat me so?"

"Good gracious!" she exclaimed. "It seems to me I treat you pretty well. You saw how I snubbed that poor little Giuseppe Bastoni, merely because you were waiting to speak to me. I thought he made it pretty plain that he was offended, and of course