I’ve been.”

28

“In the smoking-room,” was the prompt reply.

“Guess again.”

“On the bridge,—only you wouldn’t dare!”

“Once more.”

“Oh, I know,” Blythe cried, setting her thick cup down on the deck, and tumbling off her chair in a snarl of steamer-rugs; “You’ve been down in the steerage finding out about the little Signorina!”

“Who told you?”

“You did! You looked so pleased with yourself! Oh, do tell me all about her!”

“Well, I’ve had a long talk with the woman. Shall we walk up and down?”

And off they went, with that absence of ceremony which characterises life on 29 shipboard, leaving Mr. DeWitt to bury his cities all unaided and unapplauded. Then, as the two walked up and down,—literally up and down, for the ship was pitching a bit, and sometimes they were labouring up-hill, and sometimes they were running down a steep incline,—as they walked up and down Mr. Grey told his story.

29

The woman, Giuditta, had confided to him all she knew, and he had surmised more. Giuditta had known the family only since the time, three years ago, when she had been called in to take care of the little Cecilia during the illness of the Signora. The father had been a handsome good-for-nothing, who had got shot in a street row in that quarter of New York known as “Little Italy.” He was nothing,—niente, niente;—but the Signora! Oh, if the gentleman could but have known the Signora, so beautiful, so patient, so sad! Giuditta had stayed with her and shared her fortunes, which were all, alas! misfortunes,—and had nursed her through a long decline. But never 30 a word had she told of her own origin,—the beautiful Signora,—nor had her father’s name ever passed her lips. Had she known that she was dying, perhaps then, for the child’s sake, she might have forgotten her pride. But she was 

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