paniards, and was happy. And by
another circumstance, scarcely less pleasing, Dick found an old
acquaintance.

On this wise:

Finding himself in Milan he suddenly called to mind an old friend
with whom he had been intimate in Boston. He had been exiled from
Italy on account of his connection with the movements of 1848. He
had fled to America, and had taken with him barely enough to live
on. For five years he had lived in Boston under the plain name of
_Hugh Airey_. Then Dick met with him, and had been attracted by the
polished manners, melancholy air, and high spirit of the
unfortunate exile. In the course of time their acquaintance ripened
into intimate friendship. Dick introduced him to all his friends,
and did all in his power to make his life pleasant. From him he had
learned Italian, and under his guidance formed a wide and deep
acquaintance with Italian literature. In 1858 Mr. Airey decided to
return to Italy and live in Turin till the return of better days.
Before leaving he confided to Dick the fact that he belonged to one
of the oldest families in Lombardy, and that he was the Count Ugo di
Gonfiloniere. The exile bade Dick and all his friends good-bye and
departed. Since then Dick had heard from him but once. The Count was
happy, and hopeful of a speedy return of better days for his country.
His hopes had been realized, as the world knows.

[Illustration: The Count Ugo.]

Dick had no difficulty in finding out where he lived, and went to
call on him. It was a magnificent palace. Throngs of servants were
around the entrance. Dick sent up his name, and was conducted by a
servant to an ante-chamber. Scarcely had he finished a hasty
survey of the apartment when hurried footsteps were heard. He turned.
The Count came rushing into the room, flushed and trembling, and
without a word threw himself into Dick's arms, embraced him, and
kissed him. It was a trying moment for Dick. Nothing is so frightful
to a man of the Anglo-Saxon race as to be hugged and kissed by a man.
However, Dick, felt deeply touched at the emotion of his friend and
his grateful remembrance of himself.

"This is a circumstance most unexpected!" cried the Count. "Why did
you not write and tell me that you were coming, my dearest friend? I
did not know that you were in Italy. But perhaps you wished to give
me a surprise?" And then the Count asked after all the friends in
America, for whom he still evinced the tenderest attachment.

On bein