hild.

Franco flushed hotly, and declared that he wished to prepare precious
memories for her. He believed this excursion at night, in the boat, on
the dark lake, the snow, the crowded and brightly lighted church, the
organ, the singing, the holy associations of Christmas, would prove to
be such. He spoke with heat, perhaps not so much for the uncle as for
some one who was silent.

"Yes, yes, yes," said Uncle Piero, as if he had expected this rhetoric,
this useless poetry.

"I am going to have some punch, too, you know!" said the child. The
uncle smiled. "That is not bad! That will indeed form a precious
memory!" Franco frowned at beholding his frail structure of poetical and
religious memories thus demolished.

"And Gilardoni?" Luisa asked.

"Here they are now," Ismaele said, going out with his lantern.

Professor Gilardoni had invited the Maironis and Donna Ester Bianchi to
come to his house for punch after Mass. He was now expected from
Niscioree, whither he had gone to fetch the young lady, who had lived
there alone with two maid-servants since her father's death, which had
taken place in 1852. The worthy Professor had mourned secretly for
Signora Teresa for a reasonable length of time, but during the
convalescence of his heart, which kept him weak and languid, and in
permanent danger of a relapse, he had not been careful enough of the
merry little face, the lively eyes, and sparkling gaiety of the little
Princess of Niscioree, as the Maironis called Donna Ester.

At seven-and-twenty Donna Ester looked like a girl of twenty, save in
her movements there was a certain languor, and in her eyes a certain
delicious hidden knowledge. She had not intended to fish for this
respectable lover, but now she knew he was caught, and she was pleased,
believing him to be a man of great genius, and infinite wisdom. That he
should ever dare speak to her of love, that she might marry all this
sallow, wrinkled, dry knowledge, had never entered her head.
Nevertheless she did not wish to quench this little fire, which was so
discreet, which was an honour to her, and probably a source of happiness
to him. If she sometimes laughed about him with Luisa she was never the
first to laugh, and always hastened to repeat: "Poor Signor Gilardoni!
Poor Professor!"

She came in hastily, her fair head enveloped in a great black hood,
looking like Spring out on the spree disguised as December. December was
close behind her, his neck shrouded