he
figures and the dresses are exactly the same; and I remember we went
to Monte Pincio that morning, on my return from rehearsal."

"What a stupid donkey I was, not to know you were so near!" said
Flora. "I should have thought my fingers would have told me while I
was drawing it."

"Ah," exclaimed Rosa, "here is Tulee!" Her eyes moistened while she
gazed upon it. "Poor Tulee!" said she, "how she cared for me, and
comforted me, during those dark and dreadful days! If it hadn't been
for her and Chloe, I could never have lived through that trouble. When
I began to recover, she told me how Chloe held my hand hour after
hour, and prayed over me without ceasing. I believe she prayed me up
out of the grave. She said our Mamita appeared to her once, and told
her she was my guardian angel; but if it had really been our Mamita,
I think she would have told her to tell me you were alive, Mignonne.
When Alfred and I went South, just before we came here, we tried to
find Tom and Chloe. We intend to go to New Bedford soon to see them. A
glimpse of their good-natured black faces would give me more pleasure
than all the richly dressed ladies I saw at Mrs. Green's great party."

"Very likely you'll hear Tom preach when you go to New Bedford,"
rejoined Flora, "for he is a Methodist minister now; and Chloe, they
say, is powerful in prayer at the meetings. I often smile when I think
about the manner of her coming away. It was so funny that my quiet,
refined Mamita Lila should all at once become a kidnapper. But here is
Rosen Blumen. Well, what now, Mignonne?"

"Papa says Lila is very sleepy, and we ought to be going home,"
replied the young damsel.

"Then we will kiss good night, _sistita mia_?" said Mrs. Blumenthal;
"and you will bring Eulalia to us to-morrow."

On their return home, Mr. Bright called to them over the garden fence.
"I've just had a letter from your neighbor, Mrs. Fitzgerald," said he.
"She wants to know whether we can accommodate her, and her father, and
her son with lodgings this summer. I'm mighty glad we can say we've
let all our rooms; for that old Mr. Bell treats mechanics as if he
thought they all had the small-pox, and he was afraid o' catching it.
So different from you, Mr. Blumenthal, and Mr. King! You ain't afraid
to take hold of a rough hand without a glove on. How is Mrs. King?
Hope she's coming to-morrow. If the thrushes and bobolinks could sing
human music, and put human feeling into it, her voice wou