st with the sacramental phrase: "However,
_fate vobis_; do as you like." One innovation only Uncle Piero had not
been willing to accept--the disappearance of his old cushion. "Luisa,"
said he, gingerly lifting the new, embroidered cushion from the
easy-chair, "Luisa, take this away." And he would not be persuaded.
"Will you take it away?" When Luisa, smiling, brought him the little
abortive mattress he sat down upon it with a satisfied, "That's it!" as
if he were solemnly taking possession of a lost throne.

At the present moment, while the violet dusk was invading the green of
the waves and running along the coast from village to village,
eclipsing, one after another, the shining white houses, the engineer
was seated upon his throne holding little Maria on his knees, while out
on the terrace Franco was watering the pots of pelargonia, his heart and
his face as full of affectionate satisfaction as if he had been slaking
the thirst of Ishmael in the desert. Luisa was patiently untangling a
fishing-line belonging to her husband, a frightful snarl of string,
lead, silk, and hooks. She was talking, meanwhile, with Professor
Gilardoni, who always had some philosophical snarl to untangle, but who
greatly preferred a discussion with Franco, who always contradicted him,
right or wrong, believing him to possess an excellent heart, but a
confused head. Uncle Piero, his right knee resting on his left, held the
child on this elevation, and for the hundredth time at least, was
repeating a little scrap of verse to her, with affected slowness, and a
slight distortion of the foreign name--

Proud shade of the river,
Of Missipipi----

As far as the seventh word the child would listen, motionless and
serious, with earnest eyes; but when he reached "Missipipi," she would
burst out laughing, pound hard with her little legs, and clap her tiny
hands over the uncle's mouth, who would also laugh merrily, and after a
short pause he would begin again, speaking slowly, slowly, in the same
approved tone:

Proud shade of the river----

The child did not resemble either father or mother; she had the eyes,
the delicate features of Grandmother Teresa. She exhibited a strange
impetuous tenderness for the old uncle, whom she so seldom saw. Uncle
Piero did not use sweet words to her; indeed, when necessary, he would
even chide her gently, but he always brought her toys, often took her
out to walk, danced her upon his knee, laughed wit