"I- I do not know, Signorina," the Sor Teresa stammered, red with excitement. "I have never seen her. Her mother"-she choked, and ceased speaking.

'Do you think that she would look like this?" the girl pursued, lifting her young charge into sight.

The child appeared like a shower-freshened rose, her face flushed, and her hair disordered by the momentary confinement.

Villemain describes the true ode as "l'émotion d'une âme ébranlée et frémissante comme les chordes d'une lyre." The soul of such an ode flashed into existence as that desolate old woman saw for the first time the only living creature of her blood left upon the earth, the child whose existence had been to her a mixture of intolerable anguish and piercing hope.

There was a start, a faint cry, and she stood staring at the lovely apparition, her arms stretched out, trembling, but tense. Every nerve of her being responded to that sudden vision. And not alone her present and her later past felt the shock. That small, bright face, alive with the fresh fire of youth, kindled a spark that ran back through all the ashes of her past, and confounded her own and her daughter's childhood with this childhood that she saw.

Startled by the old woman's strange agitation, Elizabeth Martin remained motionless; and there was a pause during which no one spoke.

Then James Martin descended hastily from his carriage, took the child and gave her into her grandmother's arms.

"You should know better than to play such a trick, Elizabeth," he said, almost angrily. "Can't you see that it is no time for trifling?"

The touch of the little form loosened the strain. The Sor Teresa clasped her grandchild, and broke into loud and convulsive weeping.

"Let's get out of this!" muttered the lawyer, moving uneasily in his seat.

Betta descended, and began to thank the ladies for their kindness; and after a word or two, they drove away and left the old woman still weeping, unconscious of them, half unconscious of what she clasped and kissed, except that

it represented gain contrasted with an irreparable loss. In that confusion of many sorrows, all lifting up their voices at once, it was the first grief of her life which presented itself most distinctly to her mind; and instead of mourning anew her husband and sons, or the daughter newly dead, her own long-forgotten mother's was the image which presented itself, and the deeply-covered wound of her loss broke out afresh and bled.

"Oh, mamma mia!" she cried; and it seemed as though the babe in her arms were herself, and she who spoke but the wild wraith of its bereavement.

That evening, as the ladies sat in their hotel after dinner, the Sor Teresa, with her grandchild and Betta, came to see them.

"I wish to thank the signori for their kindness, and apologize for my conduct," she said; and she was, in fact, greatly mortified at the scene she had made.

They found her a dignified woman, far more reserved than Betta had been, and she did not volunteer any more information concerning her daughter.

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"But she is the true heiress, is she not?" Mrs. Nelson asked, almost impatiently. The Sor Teresa glanced about her, then looked straight into the lady's eyes. Signora, " she said, "I have no proof of my daughter's marriage." And she thought, "What sent these bunglers here to play with fire, and put my only treasure in peril?"

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"Did you not witness the marriage?" persisted the lady.

The Sor Teresa pressed her lips together. Almost a fierce impulse seized her to strike the mouth that spoke.

"Don't you understand?" whispered Elizabeth, in English. "As the next heiress, the child is not so safe as the father was!"

Mrs. Nelson. had told the story to the young men, and had declared her intention of keeping an eye on the orphan, and doing something for her education. It pleased her vanity to think that she should be the patroness of one who ought to be a countess in her own right. She propounded this plan now to the grandmother. She would send a certain sum quarterly to some responsible person in the town, and it was to

be used for the child's necessities, if she were in need; and secondly, to give her as good an education as the place afforded.

"It had better be sent to the mayor of the town," she said. "Who is the mayor now?"

woman fiercely; and gathering up the money, flung the apron with it across the room. "She would never have given gold otherwise. They have robbed my child, the devils!"

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Mrs. Nelson bit her lip, and considered. "It is just the thing!" the lawyer struck in."Make them responsible, and they will not dare to harm her. We will see him before we go away."

The old woman, after a moment's thought, consented; and she smiled faintly, and bowed as she addressed her consent to Mr. Elder. Here was one person, at least, who had some astuteness. "But he shall have no authority over mine, Signora," she added hastily.

Certainly not!" Mrs. Nelson promised, and began to define her plans more minutely.

"I have some money in a box," the Sor Teresa said, "I don't know how much it is."

"Oh! that can go for present needs," said Mrs. Nelson. "But what will you call the little girl?"

It was a cruel question, and hard to answer. To call her Giorgini would make enemies, and perpetuate enmity without gaining anything; to call her Lanciani was to resign all hope of future justice, and to slander her own daughter. Mrs. Nelson brought forward the plan she had been cherishing the whole afternoon, and carried it against all opposition. The child was to be called "Beatrice da Sanzio."

Betta did not go back to Sanzio that day; she stayed all night with the Sor Teresa; and when everything was still, and the child asleep, they cut open the old Countess Giorgini's money-box, and as its contents rolled into the old woman's apron, both voices set up a cry. The only silver pieces were what had been put in that morning: all the rest was gold. The old countess, making a show of copper or silver for Betta's eyes, had every week for two years dropped a gold napoleon into the box. There were one hundred and four of them.

"You see! she knew that my daughter's child was the heiress!" cried the old

VOL. VIII.-5

an

CHAPTER V.

STRANDED.

This

The Sor Teresa's chamber had two windows, one overlooking the grassy piazza, the other completely covered by enormous fig-tree that thrust its leaves quite into the room. There was a large bed in one corner, shaded by an old curtain of coarse dark-red silk. There was an oaken chest containing her small store of household linen, the remains of her wedding outfit, her wedding-dress of silver-threaded brocade, and her large black veil of hand-made netting worked with solid flowers. veil was so transparent that, when held up single, the flowers looked like winged things floating in the air. There was an oaken credence, an intarsio work-box, and a delicate red-wood table with cross legs. In a tiny closet in the wall, hidden by a picture of the Madonna, was a box containing her own wedding pearls, now somewhat discolored. She had given them to her daughter on her marriage; and when the young countess died they had been sent back to her.

The large fire-place in one corner of the room answered as kitchen. A table stood so near as to be almost inside of it, and quite inside hung the saucepans and earthen utensils for cooking. A few chairs and a table completed the furnishing of the chamber.

It was the morning after her grandchild's arrival, and the chamber was dazzling with a golden-green illumination. The sun and the fig tree were having their daily struggle at the eastern window. Beatrice had waked at early dawn, had been given a cup of goat's milk and a piece of bread, and had run about in the small garden and on the house-top, till, tired and warm, she fell asleep again. Betta had taken a weeping leave of her and gone back to Sanzio.

The Sor Teresa stood and looked at the sleeping child, unwilling to wake her. Yet she had work to do; and it must be done out of doors. A pile of unbleached cotton thread lay on the table, and it must be all doubled and twisted before sunset.

She waited a while, then took a round basket down from the wall, and made a nest of it. First she placed a pillow, over that a shawl, and then a small thick bough from the fig-tree set up at one edge as a sunshade. Lastly, under a corner of the shawl, she hid a yellow apricot, a bit of bread, and a tiny bottle of wine and water.

She smiled to herself with a tremulous delight as she made these preparations, her thoughts fluttering back to her own early motherhood, and that wondering ecstasy over her first babe. Was this the child or was it another? She felt confused sometimes, she had suffered so much.

The nest prepared, she softly lifted the little sleeper and laid her in it, waited a moment till the slight stir of being disturbed had changed to slumber again, then lifted the basket to her head, and went out bearing the child like a crown. The dome of the church threw its shadow on the grass. Sor Teresa set the basket in that curve of shade, and began her work.

Presently there was a jingling of bells and a trampling of horses. The two carriages of the Americans drew up at the gate, and they all descended and came up to her. Seeing the child asleep in its pretty cradle, they hushed themselves, and stood looking at her.

"She has gone to sleep on the shady side of the moon," James Martin said, looking at the half-circle of shadow that surrounded her.

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and take her lessons without paying. It is a very agreeable offer; and I find him very gentlemanly. Remember to have her carefully brought up, and never allow her to be called by any other name than Beatrice da Sanzio, unless she should prove her right to her father's name."

"Tell her not to let the young one go into a convent, either as pupil or nun," Mr. Elder struck in. "Or, I will tell her myself. See here, old woman!" touching her on the shoulder. Erre-non lettere -"

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"Oh! Oh!" laughed the two ladies.

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- permettere, I mean, "the young man persevered, unabashed, "che-che-Beatrice-mettere-mai-mai mettere!" with oratorical emphasis, erre- piede sopra porta convento. Mai! Mai!!" A chorus of feminine laughter greeted this effort.

"Now that you have distinguished yourself," Miss Martin said, "perhaps you will go and count to make sure that all our twenty-seven parcels are in the carriage. But please don't count in Italian. You are quite too infinitely infinite for accuracy.'

"I could learn Italian in a month," Mr. Elder declared. "All you 've got to do is to take a word out of some other language and put a little curly tail on it. Their words run as glibly as their little pigs. By Jove! I did n't know till I came here that a pig could run. Some words are like the other end of the beast, cut square off: più, giù. A few simple rules, and you can talk right off."

"I once knew a rheumatic old lady who went on that principle," James Martin said. 'She used to tell her maid to rubare her ankle. She meant rub; but the poor girl did n't seem to understand."

"Do you remember how we used to talk hog-Latin and pig-Latin when we were little boys?" Selwyn asked.

"Yiffus, yiggery," answered Martin; and they laughed.

It took so little to make them laugh. The ladies, having had a confidential domestic consultation with the Sor Teresa, came out to their carriage.

"It is all nicely settled," Mrs. Nelson "And I should n't be surprised if romance were one day to grow out To think of our little girl going

into the household of the very family which is to have her title and estates! I predict that she will marry the little son of our sindaco."

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She took his card from her pocketbook, and read the name out: Francesco Alinori," and pointed complacently to the coronet.

"I shall write him to keep the child out of convents," announced Mr. Francis Elder.

"Yes," said Miss Elizabeth, "write him to not lettere permettere mettere, et cetera."

"But you can't be sure that she may not herself choose such a life," Mrs. Nelson said. "Those influences are in the very air that she breathes."

"Of course," replied the lawyer. “But I know the value of protest, and persistent protest. Why, a flea which persists is stronger than a lion which gives up."

"A flea which persists," repeated Elizabeth Martin dreamily; and, pushing up her sleeve from the wrist, displayed a score of little pink dots on her white arm. "A flea which persists!" she murmured, contemplating these dots, and then proceeding to count them with a pretty finger-tip.

"No!" the lawyer went on seriously. "I will never give the help of my silence to what I disapprove of, from the idea that speech is vain. It is never in vain. It keeps our own souls alive, if no more. It is not our lungs alone which breathe through our lips: it is our brain and heart. "That's right! That's right!" said James Martin, and laid his hand on the speaker's shoulder and smiled into his face.

It struck the whole company at that moment that there was something peculiarly noble in James Martin's face.

They were waiting for some fresh lemons which they had sent back for, and which came presently, tied up in a blue cotton handkerchief.

The Sor Teresa watched them, laughing, jeering, scolding, merry over everything. She saw them step into their carriages, seat themselves, rise, search among their packages, call to each other, settle finally into place, and drive away. They all waved their handkerchiefs to her on parting, and she courtesied to them. There was a lessening sound of bells, hoofs and wheels, a faint cloud of dust above the city wall; and they were gone. The dead old town seemed more than ever dead. They had come like a wave of the sea over a dry beach, life-bringing, making the stones glisten for an hour, flinging spray, and shells, and sea-weed, and ebbing back again into the great unknown.

But the wave had left her a pearl!

She turned to look at the sleeping child, and went on with her work again. Beatrice waked, ate her luncheon, and wandered about the grass. She was quiet and wistful, and seemed rather lost. She suffered her grandmother's caresses, but did not return them; and could scarcely be persuaded to speak. Now and then she would stop and look earnestly at the Sor Teresa.

The sacristan of the church came out to make her acquaintance, and she willingly accompanied him to see the Madonna, and lay a little flower on the altar.

With sunset, the Sor Teresa's work was done. The whole grassy square was glowing a red gold.

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Come, darling, and we will get some supper," she said; and when the child came quietly to her arms, she asked, Why do you look at me so, dear? Do you not know who I am?”

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"Are you Tessa come back?" asked Beatrice, gazing at her doubtfully. Tessa was contessa, and her name for her other grandmother.

"No, I am not Tessa," replied the old woman with a sigh. "Tessa robbed you!" she added bitterly.