beside me there was a different quality of womanhood from any that I had recently known; a keenness, a maturity, a conscience, which deeply stirred my curiosity. It was positive, not negative maidenhood.
"You're an American," I said, as we stepped to look at the distance.
"Yes; and you?" In her voice alone the charm faltered. It was high, thin, and nervous.
"Oh, happily, I'm also one."
"I shouldn't have thought so. I should have taken you for a German."
"By education I am a German. I knew you were an American the moment I looked at you."
"I suppose so. It seems that American women are easily recognized. But don't talk about America." She paused and swept her dark eye over the whole immensity of prospect. "This is Italy," she cried, "Italy, Italy!"
"Italy indeed. What do you think of the Leonardo?"
"I fancy there can be only one feeling about it. It must be the saddest and finest of all pictures. But I know nothing of art. I have seen nothing yet but that lovely Raphael in the Brera."
"You have a vast deal before you. You're going southward, I suppose?"
"Yes, we are going directly to Venice. There I shall see Titian."
"Titian and Paul Veronese."
"Yes, I can hardly believe it. Have you ever been in a gondola?"
"No; this is my first visit to Italy."
"Ah, this is all new, then, to you as well."
"Divinely new," said I, with fervor.
She glanced at me, with a smile,—a ray of friendly pleasure in my pleasure. "And you are not disappointed!"
"Not a jot. I'm too good a German."
"I'm too good an American. I live at Araminta, New Jersey!"
We thoroughly "did" the high places of the church, concluding with an ascent into the little gallery of the central
