The Argosy — page 327: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

306 Margaret’s Frenzy. this drive would be for all time a memorable one. Italy lapped over into the Tyrol and gave the people dark lustrous eyes, lithe figures, a graceful port, and picturesqueness of costume long before we left Austrian territory. Near Croce Bianca a pathetic incident occurred. A wan-looking woman came out from a cottage and walked slowly towards us, bearmeg a small black box on her head. She said a few sentences in Italian to our guard, who reverently pushed the rough little coffin in among the luggage at the back of the diligence. He afterwards told us that: it contained the body of a baby who had died the previous day. Its mother, fatally ill at the cottage, had begged that it might be buried at Pieve di Cadore, her birthplace, where she had friends who would receive it. It was quite out of the ordinary custom to make the diligence a funeral car for a peasant baby; but regulations were elastic in that part of the world, and our guard seemed ready to risk reproof in order to gratify a dying woman’s wish. Pieve di Cadore, the birthplace of Titian, as well as of the poor woman who had lost her baby, was a mile or more distant from the diligence road. For passengers wishing to visit this place an omnibus was sent to the cross-roads ; those more prosaically inclined remaining at an inn for dinner and repose. We were among the latter, and, after taking refreshment, watched at our ease from afar the bustle of changing horses and men and escorting travellers and luggage from one conveyance to the other. At nightfall we reached Marina, where we were provided with supper, and a room decorated with pictures of saints in smiling torture. The next morning, as we had some hours to spare before resuming our journey, Margaret astonished me by sending for her violin. “Vou don’t mean to say you have brought the fiddle on this expedition, of all others!” I exclaimed blankly. ‘‘Of course I brought it. It would not have been safe otherwise, and I was not sure we should return by this route. I bade the waiter put it in the diligence without your knowledge, as I sometimes fancied it annoyed you.” “Very well,” I returned resignedly. ‘‘I will go out for a walk while you practise.” And I suited the action to the word without further delay. My thoughts were very cheerful companions. The next afternoon would find us in Venice; the day following would be a red-letter one for all the year: the birthday féte, the wonders of the marine city, meeting again Herbert Stacy. All was like a delicious dream, short and sweet as dreams are, but amply worth any fatigue and discomfort which the journey might cause. When I returned from my walk, I found Margaret in floods of tears, pacing the room distractedly and wringing her hands in undisguised distress. When she could control her voice she told me a woeful tale. CONRICLOOKS.E0)