othing in a country in
which one is frozen up half the year! And Jackeymo, too, had added to
our good, solid, heavy English bread, preparations of wheat much
lighter, and more propitious to digestion--with those crisp _grissins_,
which seem to enjoy being eaten, they make so pleasant a noise between
one's teeth.

The Parson esteemed it a little treat to drink tea with the Riccaboccas.
There was something of elegance and grace in that homely meal, at the
poor exile's table, which pleased the eye as well as taste. And the very
utensils, plain Wedgewood though they were, had a classical simplicity,
which made Mrs. Hazeldean's old India delf, and Mrs. Dale's best
Worcester china, look tawdry and barbarous in comparison. For it was
Flaxman who gave designs to Wedgewood, and the most truly refined of all
our manufactures in porcelain (if we do not look to the mere material)
is in the reach of the most thrifty.

The little banquet was at first rather a silent one; but Riccabocca
threw off his gloom, and became gay and animated. Then poor Mrs.
Riccabocca smiled, and pressed the _grissins;_ and Violante, forgetting
all her stateliness, laughed and played tricks on the Parson, stealing
away his cup of warm tea when his head was turned, and substituting iced
cherry-juice. Then the Parson got up and ran after Violante, making
angry faces, and Violante dodged beautifully, till the Parson, fairly
tired out, was too glad to cry "Peace," and come back to the
cherry-juice. Thus time rolled on, till they heard afar the stroke of
the distant church-clock, and Mr. Dale started up and cried, "But we
shall be too late for Leonard. Come, naughty little girl, get your
father his hat."

"And umbrella!" said Riccabocca, looking up at the cloudless moonlit
sky.

"Umbrella against the stars?" asked the Parson, laughing.

"The stars are no friends of mine," said Riccabocca, "and one never
knows what may happen!"

The Philosopher and the Parson walked on amicably.

"You have done me good," said Riccabocca, "but I hope I am not always so
unreasonably melancholic as you seem to suspect. The evenings will
sometimes appear long, and dull too, to a man whose thoughts on the past
are almost his sole companions."

"Sole companions?--your child?"

"She is so young."

"Your wife?"

"She is so--," the bland Italian appeared to check some disparaging
adjective, and mildly added, "so good, I allow; but you must own that we
can not have much in c