the entrance, upon the basin scooped above the bench in the stone wall to hold the holy water.
But instead of leaning above there, high up against the heavens, she came toward me—came down the street, drooping in the heat as the roses drooped.
She had been out with some lace to the market-square.
She and I were all alone, facing one another suddenly in the silent, sultry, sleepy noon beneath the eaves of the old houses. She had a kirtle of green, I remember, and a bodice of white; and she had sheltered her bright hair and her little yellow kerchief with some broad woven green leaves. She looked herself like a flower blossoming out from the gray wrinkled square stones of the pavement.
It might be the heat, it might be her fatigue, it might be—I know not. Her face was paler than its wont, and her eyes were softer. I cannot tell what it was: something gave me voice, and I spoke—spoke as I gave her my poor little gift.
I knew how foolish it was: I knew how mad it was. I knew no woman could ever ook on me with any sentiment perhaps except disgust—with nothing more than pity at the most. I knew a man's heart might break for ever and no creature see aught except a jest in his despair if he were
