We were very silent and listened to the singing, our gondola just touching the others on each side, those in turn touching others, so that a musician from the barge could cross from one to another, presenting the hat for contributions.

In spite of this extreme propinquity, I feared the collector would fall into the water when he received the offering of Poor Jr.

It was "Gra-a-az', Mi-lor! Graz'!" a hundred times, with bows and grateful smiles indeed! It is the one place in the world where you listen to a bad voice with pleasure, and none of the voices are good--they are harsh and worn with the night-singing--yet all are beautiful because they are enchanted.
They sang some of our own Neapolitan songs that night, and last of all the loveliest of all, "La Luna Nova." It was to the cadence of it that our gondoliers moved us out of the throng, and it still drifted on the water as we swung, far down, into sight of the lights of the Ledo: "Luna d'ar-gen-to fal-lo so-gnar-- Ba-cia-lo in fron-te non lo de-star...." Not so sweetly came those measures as the low voice of the beautiful lady speaking them.
"One could never forget it, never!" she said.

"I might hear it a thousand other times and forget them, but never this first time." I perceived that Poor Jr.

turned his face abruptly toward hers at this, but he said nothing, by which I understood not only his wisdom but his forbearance.
"Strangely enough," she went on, slowly, "that song reminded me of something in Paris.