y, than it is to
supply what is wanted in a cottage. Ah yes, your father was wise, he was
a person of character. The poor are always cared for. There are none of
us, even when we are ourselves poor, who do not hold out a hand to them.
There is a society in my Florence which is like you. It is for the
_Poveri Vergognosi_. You don't understand Italian? That means those who
are ashamed to beg. These are they," said the Contessa impressively,
"who are to be the most pitied. They must starve and never cry out; they
must conceal their misery and smile; they must put always a fair front
to the world, and seem to want nothing, while they want everything. Oh!"
The Contessa ended with a sigh, which said more than words. She pressed
Lucy's hand, and turned her face away. Her feelings were too much for
her, and on the delicate cheek, which Lucy could see, there was the
trace of a tear. After a moment she looked round again, and said, with
a little quiver in her voice: "I respect your father, my Lucy. It was a
noble thought, and it is original. No one I have ever heard of had such
an intention before."

Lucy, at this unlooked-for applause, brightened with pleasure; but at
the same time was so moved that she could only look up into her
companion's face and return the pressure of her hand. When she recovered
a little she said: "You have known people like that?"

"Known them? In my country," said the Contessa (who was not an Italian
at all), "they are as plentiful as in England--blackberries. People with
noble names, with noble old houses, with children who must never learn
anything, never be anything, because there is no money. Know them! dear
child, who can know better? If I were to tell you my history! I have for
my own part known--what I could not trouble your gentle spirit to hear."

"But, Madame di Forno-Populo, oh! if you think me worthy of your
confidence, tell me!" cried Lucy. "Indeed, I am not so insensible as you
may think. I have known more than you suppose. You look as if no harm
could ever have touched you," Lucy cried, with a look of genuine
admiration. The Contessa had found the right way into her heart.

The Contessa smiled with mournful meaning and shook her head. "A great
deal of harm has touched me," she said; "I am the very person to meet
with harm in the world. A solitary woman without any one to take care of
me, and also a very silly one, with many foolish tastes and
inclinations. Not prudent, not careful, my