lorence.

"Rather an awkward business," replied the little man, recovering himself
uneasily after his third bow. "The dressmaker, named Nanina, whom you
placed under my wife's protection about a year ago--"

"What of her?" inquired the priest eagerly.

"I regret to say she has left us, with her child-sister, and their very
disagreeable dog, that growls at everybody."

"When did they go?"

"Only yesterday. I came here at once to tell you, as you were so very
particular in recommending us to take care of her. It is not our fault
that she has gone. My wife was kindness itself to her, and I always
treated her like a duchess. I bought dinner-mats of her sister; I even
put up with the thieving and growling of the disagreeable dog--"

"Where have they gone to? Have you found out that?"

"I have found out, by application at the passport-office, that they
have not left Florence--but what particular part of the city they have
removed to, I have not yet had time to discover."

"And pray why did they leave you, in the first place? Nanina is not a
girl to do anything without a reason. She must have had some cause for
going away. What was it?"

The little man hesitated, and made a fourth bow.

"You remember your private instructions to my wife and myself, when
you first brought Nanina to our house?" he said, looking away rather
uneasily while he spoke.

"Yes; you were to watch her, but to take care that she did not suspect
you. It was just possible, at that time, that she might try to get back
to Pisa without my knowing it; and everything depended on her remaining
at Florence. I think, now, that I did wrong to distrust her; but it
was of the last importance to provide against all possibilities, and to
abstain from putting too much faith in my own good opinion of the girl.
For these reasons, I certainly did instruct you to watch her privately.
So far you are quite right; and I have nothing to complain of. Go on."

"You remember," resumed the little man, "that the first consequence of
our following your instructions was a discovery (which we immediately
communicated to you) that she was secretly learning to write?"

"Yes; and I also remember sending you word not to show that you knew
what she was doing; but to wait and see if she turned her knowledge
of writing to account, and took or sent any letters to the post.
You informed me, in your regular monthly report, that she nearer did
anything of the kind."

"Never, until