n the frame was a photograph of Prince Giovanni Della
Robbia as a boy of eighteen; but so little had eleven years changed
Vanno, that Nathalie recognized the picture at once.

"Ah," she exclaimed, "surely that is the handsome, tall young gentleman
who walks over often to look at the Villa Mirasole, near our laiterie:
the brother of the prince who is coming soon to live there."

"Why, yes, it is he," replied her aunt. "He is a friend of our cure's,
and was once his pupil. He is the Prince Giovanni Della Robbia, a very
noble, good young man."

"I am not sure he is so very good," retorted Nathalie, pleased to know
something which her aunt perhaps did not know, about a person of
importance.

Luciola's tiny body quivered with indignation. "Not good! How dare you
say such a thing of our cure's Prince? What can you have to tell of a
great noble in his position--you--a little no-one-at-all?"

The Storm-cloud lowered. "There are those as important as your Prince
who do not think me a 'little no-one-at-all.' The grand folk who come to
Cap Martin to call upon our lady the Empress Eugenie tell each other
about me; English dukes and duchesses they are, and Spanish grandees,
and high nobility from all over the world, who visit the Cap to do her
reverence. They make one excuse or another to have a look at your
'little no-one-at-all.' And a famous American artist has sketched me, in
the olive woods. He would not let me run home even for five minutes to
change into my best dress, nor would he permit that I put away my milk
cans: that was my one regret! As for your Prince, he passed, taking a
short cut to the villa, while I posed. Do you think he went on without
looking? No; he stopped and spoke with the artist."

"Then that was because they were acquaintances," snapped Luciola.

"It is true they knew each other. But it was not for the _beaux yeux_ of
the big red-bearded artist that the Prince stopped. It was to look at my
face in the sketch-book. There were other faces there, too, and on the
page next to mine the profile of a most lovely lady, all blond like an
angel, whose name the Prince knew, for he and the artist talked of her,
and called her Miss Grant. I have heard much conversation about her
since then, at Madame Winter's, at tea-time in the afternoon when I
bring in the tray and give cakes to visitors. They all, especially
Madame's cousin, speak of Miss Grant, and she is celebrated for her
beauty as well as for her gambli