have been able to speak even a few words of comfort to the
poor old man, whose cheeks were wet with tears, but she could not utter
a syllable.

"Ay, indeed," muttered he, "it will be a dreary home now."

Not another word was spoken by either as they trod their way along the
silent streets, over which the coming gloom of evening threw a mournful
shadow. They walked, with bent-down heads, as if actually fearing to
recognize the objects that they had so often looked upon with her, and,
slowly traversing the little Platz, they gained their own door. There
they halted, and, from habit, pulled the bell. Its little tinkle, heard
in the stillness, seemed suddenly to recall them both to thought; for
Dalton, with a melancholy smile, said,

"'T is old Andy is coming now! 'T is n't her foot I hear! Oh, Nelly,
Nelly, how did you ever persuade me to this! Sure, I know I 'll never be
happy again!"

Nelly made no answer. The injustice of the speech was well atoned for in
her mind by the thought that, in shifting the blame from himself to her,
her father might find some sort of consolation; well satisfied to become
the subject of his reproach if the sacrifice could alleviate his sorrow.

"Take that chair away; throw it out of the window," cried he, angrily.
"It breaks my heart to look at it." And with this he leaned his head
upon the table, and sobbed like a child.

CHAPTER XX. A VERY SMALL "INTERIOR."

IN one of the most favored spots of that pleasant quay which goes by
the name of the Lungo l'Arno, at Florence, there stood a small,
miserable-looking, rickety old building, of two stories high, wedged in
between two massive and imposing palaces, as though a buffer to deaden
the force of collision. In all probability it owed its origin to some
petty usurpation, and had gradually grown up, from the unobtrusive
humility of a cobbler's bulk, to the more permanent nuisance of stone
and mortar. The space occupied was so small as barely to permit of
a door and a little window beside it, within which hung a variety
of bridles, halters, and such-like gear, with here and there the
brass-mounted harnessing of a Calasina, or the gay worsted tassels
and fringed finery of a peasant's Barroccino. The little spot was so
completely crammed with wares, that for all purposes of traffic it was
useless; hence, everything that pertained to sale was carried on in the
street, thus contributing by another ingredient to the annoyance of this
mispla