eded me towards the
house. The ground floor partly consisted of a large cool hall, from
which the sun was shut out by closed Venetian blinds, and heavy
curtains. True to my assumed character, I begged him to let in some
light so that I might see the different paintings which hung on the
walls. They were all family portraits of little value; only one of them
which hung above the chimney piece engrossed my attention. "This is the
mother of the Signorina," said the old man, "I mean the real mother,
who has been dead these fifteen years. She was a handsome woman; the
people here called her the beautiful saint. Her daughter is very like
her, only she is more cheerful. She resembles a bird, who always merry,
hops up and down in its cage."

"She seems to possess the voice of a bird, as well," I remarked, with
all the indifference I could assume, "if that is hers which we now hear
above us."

"You are right," said the old man. "The director of the Opera in town
comes here twice a week. When her papa (_il babbo_ he called him) pays
her his monthly visit, he always stays many hours, and she sings all
her new songs to him, and then the poor old gentleman feels as happy as
if he were in Paradise. He has not many joys, and without that child he
were better in another world."

"What is the matter with him," I asked, "is he ill?"

"As you take it;" replied the old man, with a shrug of his shoulders;
"I for my part would prefer death to such a life. For those who knew
him when he was still in the army--the giant of Giovanni de Bologna on
the market-place, does not look more high spirited, and chivalrous,
than did my general--And now! it breaks lay heart to think of it. The
whole day long he sits in his arm-chair by the window, and cuts out
pictures or plays at dominoes--It seems as if he neither heard nor saw,
but when his wife speaks to him, he looks up timidly and nods
acquiescence to everything she says. Only with regard to the Signorina
he has remained the same, and is not easily to be deceived. Those who
attempted it would soon perceive that the old lion's paws have still
some strength left in them although his claws have been cut."

"But how came he to sink into that melancholy condition?"

"No one knows. Many things have occurred in this house but the outer
world only whispers them. My belief is, that, that woman; I mean to say
her Excellency, the young Signora struck his heart a deadly blow and he
has never recovered fro