face and the step of a princess in her rags, was the only living thing found there; she answered him readily, balancing her water-jar as Bhe came from the torrent like some Pompeian Naiad; her father had gone to his work at dawn; he was a charcoal-burner, and he would not return till evening; the stranger was welcome to shelter; and food—well, there was no food except some millet-cakes, and a bit of dried fish from the fresh water; he could have that, if he wanted. Any one near? Oh no, there was no one for ten miles or more round, except one or two huts like hers. She was a picturesque, handsome little forester, bare-legged and scarce clothed, yet with a wild freedom of movement, and a certain pensive grace thoroughly national; very like the beautiful mournful models, Campagna-born, of Rome, who look like living poems, and who have but one thought—baiocchi.
"It is a miserable place for you, yet it will give us some sort of harbour," he said, as he brought Idalia to the woodland cabin.
She looked across a moment at the luxuriance of vine and blossom, and backward at the black pine-mass, through which the falling waters glanced like light, and smiled half wistfully as she looked.
"I think it is a paradise! To forget the world
