of a little paint, a
crown of gilt paper, and a candle, some pious hands had transformed into
a Madonna. A little beneath this, and on a black board, scrawled with
letters of unequal size, is the word 'Trattoria' or eating-house.

Nothing, indeed, can be well further from the ordinary aspect of a
tavern than the huge vaulted chamber, almost destitute of furniture,
and dimly lighted by the flame of a single lamp; a few loaves of coarse
black bread, some wicker-bound flasks of common wine, and a wooden bowl
containing salad, laid out upon a table, constituting all that the place
affords for entertainment. Some benches are ranged on either side of the
table, and two or three more are gathered around a little iron tripod,
supporting a pan of lighted charcoal, over which now two figures are
to be seen cowering down to the weak flame, while they converse in low
whispers together.

It is a cold and dreary night in December; the snow has fallen not only
on the higher Apennines, but lies thickly over Albano, and is even seen
in drifts along the Campagna. The wailing wind sighs mournfully through
the arches of the Colosseum and among the columns of the old Forum,
while at intervals, with stronger gusts, it sweeps along the narrow
alley, wafting on high the heavy curtain that closes the doorway of the
Trattoria, and leaving its occupants for the time in total darkness.

Twice had this mischance occurred; and now the massive table is drawn
over to the door, to aid in forming a barricade against the storm.

''Tis better not to do it, Fra Luke,' said a woman's voice, as the stout
friar arranged his breastwork. 'You know what happened the last time
there was a door in the same place.'

'Never mind, Mrs. Mary,' replied the other; they 're not so ready with
their knives as they used to be, and, moreover, there's few of them will
be out to-night.'

Both spoke in English, and with an accent which told of an Irish origin;
and now, as they reseated themselves beside the brazier, we have time
to observe them. The woman is scarcely above forty years of age, but
she looks older from the effects of sorrow: her regular features and
deeply-set eyes bear traces of former beauty. Two braids of rich brown
hair have escaped beneath her humble widow's cap and fallen partly over
her cheeks, and, as she tries to arrange them, her taper and delicately
formed fingers proclaim her of gentle blood: her dress is of the
coarsest woollen stuff worn by t