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They call it 'acqua benedetta.' I love to see
them do that."
Another big wave struck the launch and made it shiver. The Marchesino
crossed himself, but quite mechanically. He was intent on Vere.
"I wonder," the girl said, "whether to-night San Francesco will not be
beaten by the waves, whether his light will be burning when we reach
the island."
She paused, then she added, in a lower voice:
"I do hope it will--don't you, Madre?"
"Yes, Vere," said her mother.
Something in her mother's voice made the girl look up at her swiftly,
then put a hand into hers, a hand that was all sympathy. She felt that
just then her mother's imagination was almost, or quite, one with
hers. The lights of Naples were gone, swallowed by the blackness of
the storm. And the tiny light at the feet of the Saint, of San
Francesco, who protected the men of the sea, and the boys--Ruffo, too!
--would it greet them, star of the sea to their pool, star of the sea
to their island, their Casa del Mare, when they had battled through
the storm to San Francesco's feet?
"I do hope it will.


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