And yet, Loretta’s little mishap, now I come to think of it, does not go back far enough.  My claim was really staked out before she was born (I am still in possession—­that is—­I was last year, and hope to be this), and her becoming part of its record is but the sticking of two pins along a chart,—­the first marking her entrance at five and the second her exit at sixteen.  All the other years of my occupation—­those before her coming and since her going—­were, of course, full of the kind of joy that comes to a painter, but these eleven years—­well, these had all of this joy and then, too, they had—­Loretta.

I was in the bow of the gondola when the first of these two pins found its place on the chart, working away like mad, trying to get the exact shadow tones on a sun-flecked wall.  Luigi was aft, fast asleep, his elbow under his head:  I never object, for then he doesn’t shake the boat.  Suddenly from out the hum of the children’s voices there came a scream vibrant with terror.  Then a splash!  Then the gondola swayed as if a barca had bumped it, and the next thing I knew Luigi’s body made a curve through the air, struck the water, with an enormous souse, and up came Loretta, her plump, wet little body resting as easily on Luigi’s hand, as a tray rests on a waiter’s.  Another sweep with his free arm, and he passed me the dripping child and clambered up beside her.  The whole affair had not occupied two minutes.

That was a great day for me!

Heretofore I had been looked upon as a squatter:  possessing certain rights, of course, and more or less welcome because of sundry lire expended for the temporary use of fishing boats with sails up,—­but still an interloper.  Now I became one of the thousand families and the million children.  These were all in evidence in less than ten seconds; the peculiar quality of that scream had done it; not only from the top story of the highest rookery did they swarm, but from every near-by campo, and way back to the shipyards.

Luigi pushed the gondola to the quay and I lifted out the water-soaked, blue-lipped little tot, her hair flattened against her cheeks (she was laughing now,—­“It was nothing,” she said, “my foot slipped,”) and placed her in the hands of the longest-armed fishwife; and then Luigi disappeared into a door, level with the quay, from which he reappeared ten minutes later in a suit of dry clothes, the property of a fisherman, and of so grotesque a fit, the trousers reaching to his knees and the cuffs of the coat to his elbows, that he set the population in a roar.  My Luigi, you might as well know, is six feet and an inch, with the torso of a Greek god and a face that is twin to Colleone’s, and, furthermore, is quite as distinguished looking as that gentleman on horseback, even if he does wear a straw hat instead of a copper helmet.  After this Loretta became part of my establishment, especially at luncheon time, Luigi hunting her up and bringing her aboard in his arms, she clinging to his grizzled, sunburned neck.  Often she would spend the rest of the day watching me paint.