k his head with the pious shake of an orthodox Protestant. He
broke from the spell resolutely, and walked on with a sturdy step.
Gaining the terrace, he found the little family seated under an awning.
Mrs. Riccabocca knitting; the Signor with his arms folded on his breast:
the book he had been reading a few moments before had fallen on the
ground, and his dark eyes were soft and dreamy. Violante had finished
her hymn, and seated herself on the ground between the two, pillowing
her head on her step-mother's lap, but with her hand resting on her
father's knee, and her gaze fixed fondly on his face.

"Good evening," said Mr. Dale. Violante stole up to him, and, pulling
him so as to bring his ear nearer to her lip, whispered, "Talk to papa,
do--and cheerfully; he is sad."

She escaped from him, as she said this, and appeared to busy herself
with watering the flowers arranged on stands round the awning. But she
kept her swimming, lustrous eyes wistfully on her father.

"How fares it with you, my dear friend?"' said the Parson, kindly, as he
rested his hand on the Italian's shoulder. "You must not let him get out
of spirits, Mrs. Riccabocca."

"I am very ungrateful to her if I ever am so," said the poor Italian,
with all his natural gallantry. Many a good wife, who thinks it is a
reproach to her if her husband is ever "out of spirits," might have
turned peevishly from that speech more elegant than sincere, and so have
made bad worse. But Mrs. Riccabocca took her husband's proffered hand
affectionately, and said with great _naivete_--

"You see I am so stupid, Mr. Dale; I never knew I was so stupid till I
married. But I am very glad you are come. You can get on some learned
subject together, and then he will not miss so much his--"

"His what?" asked Riccabocca inquisitively.

"His country. Do you think that I can not sometimes read your thoughts?"

"Very often. But you did not read them just then. The tongue touches
where the tooth aches, but the best dentist can not guess at the tooth
unless one opens one's mouth.--_Basta!_ Can we offer you some wine of
our own making, Mr. Dale? it is pure."

"I'd rather have some tea," quoth the Parson hastily.

Mrs. Riccabocca, too pleased to be in her natural element of domestic
use, hurried into the house to prepare our national beverage. And the
Parson, sliding into her chair, said:

"But you are dejected, then? Fie! If there's a virtue in the world at
which we should always