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22ARIADNE.A year had gone by since Maryx had leftRome, and it was summer again — full summer,with all the people going out,in merryhonestfooling, to the country; and the lusty-lungedreapers coming through the streets all the nightlong, singing, with the tasselled corn in theirhair, and the poppies behind then- ears.Ah, the poppies! — Love's gift.WhenIsaw themIgrew more heart-sickthan before, and all the loud sonorous reapingsongsbeat on my ears with a stupid hatefulsound.One night they came by me over the bridge,louder andmore mirthful than ever,and the girlsof our streets were dancing the saltarella withsome young fisher-fellows from the boats below,and all of a sudden the harmless, noisy joyousnessof it all smote me so sharply thatIcouldnot bear it any longer,andIrose up and walkedaway.All the day long, and some time before,Idonot know whyit was, but a sudden restlessnesshad seized on me, and that kind of feeling ofsomething strange about me which one has at