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The report of a cannon rent the hot, still air, the midday gun from Castel Sant' Angelo. Instantly every church bell in Rome broke into peals of sound, echoing the announcement of high noon to the city. Fra Tommaso had leaped to his ropes and was working like a demon, trying to outring all the neighboring bells, and especially the one of Santa Eulalia, the convent on the other side of the river; between it and San Severino there was on this point an ancient rivalry which deafened all who lived near either.

Mariuccia departed well content, and at once made her way to the indicated address. The Palazzo Santafede was a huge pile belonging to the prince of that name, and running the whole length of the street which separated the Ripetta from a large quiet piazza, where five well-known palaces had faced each other in dignified seclusion for some centuries past, while many a tragedy and comedy had been played in the great rooms behind their tall, impenetrable walls. The Santafede residence stretched four-square round a vast sunny courtyard where a fountain bubbled in the center, and battered statues of more or less doubtful merit stood on pedestals under the deep colonnade which ran round three sides and afforded shelter for the prince's stables. The present prince was a very young man, with pronounced sporting tendencies, and beautiful English carriage horses and Irish hunters were groomed under the colonnade in the morning. The Princess Mother lived with her son on the "piano nobile," the first floor of the palace, in solemn and unchanging state. All the other apartments, there being no married sons to be housed, were let to tenants whose worldly importance diminished with each flight of stairs they climbed--monsignori, diplomatists, nobles who had no dwelling of their own in Rome paid high rents for spacious suites of rooms on second and third floors. Above these came modest apartments occupied by humbler individuals; and the vast attics, which a couple of centuries ago had accommodated four or five hundred retainers, were now let out, even in single rooms, to all who could satisfy the maestro di casa of their respectability.

The reigning family was away at this time of year and the porter was taking his ease in his shirt sleeves in the shade of the great doorway when Mariuccia marched in and inquired for Professor Bianchi.

"Third staircase to the right, fourth floor," was the reply. And as the inquirer went on under the colonnade, the porter remarked to his wife, who was sitting on the lodge steps nursing her baby, "I wager there goes another cook for Professor Scortica sassi . I wonder how long she will stay?"

Mrs. Porter glanced after the receding figure. There was something impressive in that dragonlike stride; the brown hand gripped the thick umbrella as if it had been a saber. "She looks pretty resolute, that female," Mrs. Porter remarked. "I shouldn't wonder if he had found his match this time. I'd rather not be in her place, though."

Mariuccia stood before the green door on the fourth landing of the third staircase. Her first ring at the bell elicited no response, but at the second, footsteps approached and a thin, rasping voice asked the regulation question: "Who is it?"

Mariuccia gave the equally invariable reply, "Friends." Then the shutter behind a tiny grating was pushed back and a pair of spectacled eyes were applied to the bars. The next moment the door was open and Mariuccia stood face to face with a slight, dark man, hooked of nose and hollow of cheek, but much younger than she had expected to behold.

He understood her errand at once. Her costume and attitude were those of the respectable servant at that time. Quite a gleam of joy came into his eyes. His cook had departed in a rage the evening before, and the unfortunate man of science had burnt a hole in his coat and nearly asphyxiated himself in trying to light the charcoal fire to make his coffee that morning. He led the new applicant for that honor through a long, dark passage, where, as he passed, he hastily closed an open door; but Mariuccia had caught sight of an unmade bed and personal belongings in sad disorder. Instantly a maternal pity for the helpless man took possession of her. That cook must have had a heart of stone to leave the poor fellow like this! He conducted her into a study filled with books, papers, plaster casts and fragments of marble, all arranged carefully enough; but the confusion of his mind and his destitute condition were illustrated by a breakfast tray which had been deposited on the floor, flooded with coffee from an overturned pot which still lay on its side.

This was more than Mariuccia's soul could bear. Before entering on any negotiation she picked up the depressing object and carried it out to where her instinct told her she would find the kitchen. Here she paused for a moment, tray in hand, to survey the possibilities of the place. She nodded approvingly. "Here I remain," she informed herself. "A kitchen of this noble size--full of light--with two windows on the street. Capperi, one does not find that every day." She glanced out of the window and saw that the opposite wall was that of the long building, running back from San Severino, the building which had housed the Fathers and their schools. Nothing could be better--she felt at home already.

The last occupant of the noble kitchen had left things in a horrible condition, certainly; rubbish everywhere, coppers that could not have been cleaned since Easter--a hecatomb of damaged crockery on the dust-laden shelves. Never mind, all that would be changed in a day. And now for the padrone. He would be wondering what had become of her.

She made her way back to the study and stood at the open door for a moment. The Professor seemed to have forgotten all about her. He was examining some fragments of dirty earthenware on which a pattern was dimly visible; fitting one to another with delicate care, he was murmuring to himself, "Spurious, spurious. That poor Cardinal! Any villain can take him in with rubbish that was baked last year and buried in the right sort of earth! Etruscan indeed. I wonder what he gave for this robaccia? What is it?" He had thrown the fragments down on the table and caught sight of Mariuccia. "Ah yes, I remember--you have come about the donna's place, I think. Who sent you to me?"

"Fra Tommaso of San Severino," she replied; and the Professor looked pleased. "I see the signore is busy, so I will, with his permission, say that I can do everything he will require, and I respectfully ask what wages he gives. I had five scudi a month with my last padrone."

The Professor's hands flew up in the air and an expression of deepest pain came across his countenance. Mariuccia's spirits rose; the delightful excitement of bargaining was about to begin.

The duel lasted three-quarters of an hour, with varying fortune, first to one and then to the other, of the disputants. Twice Mariuccia seized the cotton umbrella and made as if to depart, outraged at having her just claims disregarded. The second time she almost meant to go; but a deep sigh from her adversary softened her heart. Poor young man, he was really quite "simpatico"--and so forlorn. She paused at the door--and then she knew that she had won the day, for he came after her and laid a hand on her arm.

"It is ruinous, that four scudi a month," he said woefully, "and fifteen baiocchi a day for your food is an insanity--you will die of apoplexy, I know it. But--there--it is said. I must sacrifice myself. Now do go and get me something to eat. That demon would not cook any supper for me last night and I faint, my good woman, I faint."

"Leave it all to me!" she replied. "Poverino! you shall suffer no more." And at once she marched off to take possession of her kingdom.

Within a week the Professor knew that he was in good strong hands; in a month he suspected that he had found a ruler; but he was well satisfied. Excepting the daily wrangle over the money for his marketing , all went smoothly and silently, as he liked it to go, in the quite shabby rooms filled with books and flooded with sunshine, where he passed his studious life. Three times a week he lectured at the university, and on other days spent much time among the excavations which constantly brought new treasures to light from Rome's inexhaustible soil. Few visitors ever mounted those steep stairs; occasionally he spent an evening with his illustrious and learned friend, Cardinal Cestaldini, but otherwise he sat in his study after supper, perfectly happy with his lamp, his books, and his cigar; and in all his habits he was regular as clockwork. Mariuccia lay down night after night in her dark bedroom off the passage, thanking Heaven for having bestowed on her the padrone she had dreamed of. She laughed to herself as she thought of his prophecy that she would die of apoplexy. She had brought her own living expenses down to one-half of the sum which she had quite justly claimed. The rest was put by for the baby she had left with Candida at Castel Gandolfo. If no rich relations turned up--and if those nice young friends of poor Signor Brockmann never sent any money for la Giannella--there would be anxious times ahead for her only protector. The Madonna and San Giuseppe would help--that could be counted upon; but one must make what provision one could--with six nephews and nieces on one's conscience!

It was three years before Mariuccia saw Giannella again. Then Candida brought her to Rome, fat and well-looking, to show her to the sister-in-law, who was to be moved, at sight of the pretty, well-fed little girl, to grant a modest request. Once in three months during the passing years a trusty carrettiere from Castel Gandolfo had brought Mariuccia a letter, written for Candida by the official scribe of the "Castello," reporting Giannella's good progress; and Fra Tommaso had read it to the recipient in the empty chapel under the bell tower. The same proven counselor had always written the answer for her, free of charge and had made up and sealed the little packet of money, growing heavier with Giannella's growth, which the carrier took back with him when he dawdled across the campagna to the hills, in his high cart, painted in gorgeous reds and blues, piled with empty barrels in exchange for the full ones he had brought in. A proud man was he. His sheepskin awning was hung with twenty or thirty jingling brass bells; his horses moved leisurely under their great burnished collars; his white lupetto, the fierce little fox-dog without which the outfit would have been incomplete, barked madly at everything on the road and frenziedly at all the other lupettos on the other carriers' vehicles, and took sole charge of all property during the long pauses at the thatched "Cappanne" where the jolly driver would have a glass of wine and a game of bowls with his compeers to break the monotony of the journey.

The letters he brought four times a year provided the great excitement of Mariuccia's existence, and the Professor knew that for a day or two in every quarter his housekeeper would be slightly less silent and methodical than usual. He understood that there was a child at nurse in the country, an occurrence so common that he never gave it a second thought. He imagined it was Mariuccia's own, and as she never spoke of having a husband, supposed that she was a widow. Once or twice he wondered what kind of a man could have had the courage to espouse such a carabineer in petticoats. He himself had a nervous terror of women, whom he considered as brainless, extravagant creatures, and in spite of his comparative youth, he seemed destined for an old bachelor, so resolutely did he avoid feminine society.

It was therefore a shock to him to return one bright winter day from the university to find his apartment resounding with women's voices and childish laughter. The front-door bell was broken and he was fighting the maestro di casa as to who should pay for repairing it, so he had let himself in with the latchkey and was coming on tiptoe down the passage to have a peep at the intruders, when the kitchen door flew open, and, out of the haze of sunshine within, a small, golden-headed whirlwind shot forward with a scream of laughter, bumped against his knees, and went down on the bricks with a thud. He sprang back, nearly as alarmed as the child; but before he could find his breath for questioning--or she for crying--two excited women swooped down on the little sufferer, picked her up, felt her all over, tried to drown her sobs with caresses and promises, and finally bore her back to the kitchen without having taken the slightest notice of the indignant master of the house. He judged it best to withdraw to his sanctum, where he sat down in dismal depression. He felt certain that this cataclysm foreboded the destruction of his peace.

It was poor Mariuccia's peace, however, which was disturbed by Candida's visit. Giannella had been splendidly cared for; her clothes were in excellent order. Sister Mariuccia could see for herself that every penny sent for the child had been honestly expended on her. Could she have those red cheeks and bright eyes, could she be such a little wisp of activity and high spirits, if she were not well fed and happy? Candida proudly asked. Surely the rich relations would be more than satisfied. And, since this would redound to Mariuccia's credit and magnify her reward from them, was it too much to ask that she would come forward generously, like the dear, good soul she always was, to help Candida, junior, the eldest niece, to a fine settlement in life? The prosperous parents of a particularly nice young man had made a proposal for Candiduccia. They were willing to take her without a dowry if she could bring the proper plenishings, the bed and the linen, the chest of drawers and the pearl earrings--and of course the Sunday clothes--without which no self-respecting girl could enter a family. Here was a chance for Candiduccia! But, to tell the truth, things had not gone so very well with Stefano of late. The good donkey had died suddenly; last year the filloxera had got at the grapes--and, in fine, they looked to sister Mariuccia to remember her kind promises and give the money for the outfit. How much? Why, well laid out, perhaps a hundred scudi would do, since of course the linen was there already--Candiduccia had been spinning it ever since she was ten, and Sor Mariano had woven it for her for nothing. Yes, a hundred scudi should do nicely. And dear Mariuccia was so rich and had no children to provide for! A little thing like that would not make much difference to her.

Dear Mariuccia looked down at Giannella and wondered how much further her little stock of money would go. The three years' payments had made sad inroads on the vaunted savings; but that Candida must never know; the money was supposed to come from the rich relations "fuori," myths in whom Mariuccia herself had come to believe in a way at times, even tormenting herself with the possibility of their coming to claim the little waif. For the woman who had refused to marry had plenty of affection to bestow, and Giannella seemed to be the only thing in the world which was her very own, had been her own ever since she was born and her real mother had slipped away from the costly joys of maternity. Mariuccia had woven pleasant little dreams about the future, and seen herself bringing Giannella to live with her when the child grew bigger and could be taught to move quietly about the house and not disturb the Professor at his books; she had seen her, in imagination, prettily dressed, as became her station in life, and finally ensnaring the affections of some ideally good and handsome young man--who would marry her and bring old Mariuccia to take care of them both and of the beautiful children Heaven would send them. But Giannella must eat many loaves of bread before these pleasant visions could be realized, and who was to provide them but Mariuccia? Four scudi a month was good pay, but how far would it go alone when the precious savings had fitted out Candiduccia and her two younger sisters--for what had been done for one must be done for the others--for entrance into well-to-do families? Mamma mia, it was a perplexing outlook! Well, the Madonna and San Giuseppe must provide. These things were matters of destiny. There was no going back now.

"You will do it, will you not?" came Candida's anxious question. The suspense was almost unbearable to her.

"Yes, I will do it, Candida mia!" the other woman replied slowly. Then she added more cheerfully, "The 'tratto' is the most expensive part. You had better leave the buying of that and the earrings to me. I can combat with these brigands of merchants better than you can, and here in the city there are fine shops for silk and cloth. You shall have the things the next time the carrettiere goes out. I will give you the money for the bed and the bureau to-day."

Having once made up her mind, no more regrets were admitted and for the next twenty-four hours Mariuccia's feelings were divided between delight at the pretty ways of the child and anxiety lest the Professor should find her trottings to and fro, her laughter and occasional tears, too intolerably disturbing. But when it was explained to him that the visitation was but a passing one, he was more patient than could have been expected. The next day Candida bore little Giannella away in good time to catch the vettura for Albano; her farewells took the form of an all-embracing benediction for the generosity of the rich sister; and that afternoon Mariuccia asked her master for permission to go out for a couple of hours. She came home absolutely hoarse with bargaining, bringing a roll of silk that would have stood alone--a gorgeous brocade of red carnations on a cinnamon-colored ground--and two feet of scarlet cloth which looked like geranium petals and felt like a baby's cheek. It had cost five scudi a foot, and with some broad gold trimmings would make the half sleeves from wrist to elbow which were relatively the most expensive part of the superb Albanese costume. It would also provide the stiff little stomacher into which the voluminous shawl of fine lace would be tucked. For this last, as well as for the lace apron, Mariuccia had gone to the selling department of the Piet?, where unredeemed pledges were disposed of, and had found there just the right earrings, wide hoops of pale gold with three fair-sized pearls dangling from each. If the bride lived to be ninety and a great-grandmother, she would wear this dress every Sunday and Feast Day at Mass and would leave it as a treasured heirloom to her descendants. In the goatskin trunk under her bed Mariuccia kept the one which her own mother and grandmother had worn at their weddings and ever after. No holidays came into her dull life, but the "tratto" must not be parted with while there was even a faint possibility of her having to appear at church in her native town.

The precious sendings were confided, a day or two later, with many anxious recommendations, to Sebastiano the carrettiere, who promised not to get off the cart for a moment, no matter what temptations might assail him till they were safely deposited at their destination.

"Leave it all to me," he exclaimed, slapping his chest proudly. "Am I not a galantu?mo? Do you think I would let such stuff as that out of my sight for a moment? Diamini! We have our principles, we carrettieri! Not a single glass will I drink before I reach Castel Gandolfo."

Mariuccia fancied that the white lupetto on the driving seat winked one eye, quite like a Christian, at this assurance, the like of which he had probably heard before, and she felt a little uncomfortable about the goods until, two weeks later, the receipt for them came in the shape of a box of confetti tied with white ribbon, the usual "faire part" of an accomplished wedding. She offered it, as in duty bound, to the Professor, who accepted it blandly and made the sugar-plums suffice for two meals, thereby effecting a saving of at least ten baiocchi.

Another three years went by, and when Candida, as Mariuccia had foreseen, came to solicit for Teresina the favors which had been accorded to her elder sister, Mariuccia saw that some decisive step must be taken; she could no longer pay for Giannella's board in her brother's family. Twice already she had been to see Mr. Brockmann's artist friends, and though they had received her with great kindness and cordiality, they had been able to help her but little. One was married, and had all he could do to maintain a wife and child; the other seemed to be as poor as ever, and only necessity would have made his visitor accept the few dollars which he insisted on giving her. There was no one else to appeal to. Mariuccia gave almost her last scudo to fit out Teresina for her wedding, and then, leaving Candida in the kitchen with Giannella standing in awed silence beside her chair, marched boldly into the Professor's study and asked his permission to keep the child with her henceforth.

Bianchi looked up from his papers in blank dismay. Keep a child in the house? The thing was out of the question. What was Mariuccia thinking of to propose such an absurdity?

"If the Signor Professor really wants to know what I am thinking of," she replied, "I will tell him, in all sincerity. I am thinking of a new place, where I can have Giannella with me. I heard of one this morning. And they give five scudi a month."

Her master's opposition collapsed before this statesmanlike invention. He could not part with his silent, economical jewel of domesticity, to fall into strange and ruthless hands. No, better accept the child, even if it should prove a demon, as he had heard that young children mostly were, and keep his cook. But he made conditions. Under no circumstances was the baby to enter his rooms. And also it must be understood, once and for all, that he must never be asked to contribute to its maintenance. Not a lump of sugar or a crust of bread was it to have from his stores. If people were so silly as to take strange orphans to bring up--Giannella's history had now been explained to him--they must bear the punishment of their spendthrift insanity alone. Perhaps it would teach them wisdom.

Mariuccia's eyes blazed as he said this, and he began to fear that he might have gone too far. But she was generous enough to overlook the insults of a conquered adversary. She thanked him in set terms for the permission to keep Giannella, assured him that he should neither hear nor see the child; and then she calmed her ruffled feelings by the first impertinent speech that had ever fallen from her lips. "Let the padrone congratulate himself on one point. The chastisements due to what he called spendthrift insanity, and which most persons would consider common charity, would never fall on his respected head."

Then she went back to Candida and told her that Giannella must now remain in the city. Her invisible relations wished her to have a superior education, such as was unattainable in her country home. Candida was frankly sorry. She had come to love the paying nursling almost as if it were her own; and the charge of Giannella, who was looked upon by the neighbors as quite a highborn young heiress, conferred much distinction on her foster parents. As for the child herself, she was appalled at the prospect of being parted from "Mamma Candida" and her lifelong playmates, to remain alone with "Zia Mariuccia," who looked so old and stern. She flung herself into Candida's arms and wept bitterly, the two women watching her in silence. Candida rocked her in her arms while some tears of her own trickled down over the golden hair in which she had taken such pride for years past.

Mariuccia let them weep together. These things were matters of destiny. There was nothing for her to say. Their double grief showed that the little one had been happy at least. Her own turn would come when the parting was over; and though she was racking her brain as to ways and means, she was confident that she could make Giannella happy too. She rose quietly and prepared as tempting a dinner as her resources would provide, and her sorrowing guests did full justice to it at last. Then all three went out to make the purchases for Teresina; and the streets, the shops, the band playing stridently as a detachment of French soldiers in gay uniforms marched down the Corso, all sent the country-reared child wild with delight. She was finally put to bed with a honey cake under her pillow, and never woke till Candida, who had slipped away in the dawn, was far out on the Via Appia, so occupied with anticipating Teresina's joy over the grand new clothes that there was little place in her mind for anything else.

A few days later Sebastiano brought a big bundle in which Mariuccia found every garment that Giannella had outgrown carefully folded up and saved by her scrupulous keepers, together with odds and ends of playthings, and little pictures of the Saints given for good conduct by the parish priest who had taught her her catechism. There was also a present of cakes and fruit from the teeming Alban garden in the hills. The padrone was offered his due of all, and actually smiled when he found a little person, with round cheeks and funnily puckered brow, reaching up with two hands to put a plate of fresh figs on his dinner-table. The child nearly dropped it when she saw him enter, but summoned up all her courage to shove it on safely. Then she turned and ran at full speed all the way to the kitchen, where she rushed to Mariuccia's side and hid her face in her protector's voluminous skirts. "Oh, please, please, ask him not to eat me this time!" she wailed. "I didn't know he was there--I will never do it again."

For Mariuccia, determined that the padrone should have no just cause of complaint, had confided to Giannella a terrible secret: the Signor Professor never hurt little girls who obeyed orders, but it was well known that he had once gobbled up a certain naughty child who did not keep out of his way!

The Principessa di Santafede was a lady of gravely gracious manners, iron prejudices and active piety, and she entertained a profound belief in the necessity of her own class to the well-being of the world. So far as she was concerned secular history contained but one record worthy of study and imitation, the record of the noble houses of Rome. Each tradition and regulation connected with these was not only a rubric but a dogma. To believe and act thereupon was to find social salvation; all who rejected these articles of faith perish from her consciousness; their names were erased from her "libro d'oro," and they ceased to be. No taint of novelty had cast its shadow over her education. Except that the history books were thicker and the spelling modernized, the teaching she received in the convent along with all the other noble damsels in Rome was the same as that which had been bestowed on her ancestresses for generations past. It had proved entirely sufficient for those eminent ladies, and neither parents nor instructors could see any reason for changing a detail of it. There would be Roman nobles so long as the world lasted; their vast establishments would move ponderously and surely as they had always moved; and a girl brought from her convent to be placed at the head of such an establishment had but to leave its conduct to the responsible persons, the major-domos, and stewards, and housekeepers, descended from many generations of officials who had served the same "Eccellentissima Casa" in the same capacities. She had but to watch and copy her seniors in order to fulfill her obligations in society, in matrimony, in maternity, to the complete satisfaction of all concerned. Life was quite simple if only people did their duty.

Political crises would occur, of course; the riots and revolutions of 1848, for instance, had been most disturbing. But they had only strengthened the beliefs of right-thinking persons, for, behold, they had passed by like a wave of the sea breaking against the rocks, leaving everything as it was before and as it would be "in saecula saeculorum" so far as Rome was concerned--and Rome was the world.

Prince Santafede had died when their only son was quite a child, and the responsibilities thus devolving on her sufficiently accounted for his widow's grave outlook on life. It was, however, a peaceful and happy life, clouded by few real anxieties, since Onorato had now reached the age of eighteen without giving any serious trouble. He was a cheerful, warm-hearted boy, with no more fixed aversion to study than the remainder of his contemporaries. Accompanied by his tutor, a learned ecclesiastic, he had attended the proper lectures at the university, and, though his education included only the classics and humanities, it had given him all that was then required of a gentleman, fluent and elegant Latin, a working acquaintance with his own and foreign literatures, charming manners, and a fitting sense of what was due to himself and others. If there was one cloud in his mother's large sky, it was caused by the fact that he did not take her views on the sacredness of family traditions in one or two minor directions, notably that of the expenditure on the stables. Onorato had no other extravagances, but he insisted on riding and driving magnificent imported horses, declaring that it was a public duty to set a higher standard than the prevailing one in such matters. The Princess and Onorato's lamented father had been perfectly contented with their six pairs of coal-black horses, bred on their own lands with hundreds of others destined to be sold all over Italy and Austria. The animals had been driven and cared for by coachmen and grooms also born on the estates; and the Princess could not imagine anything more splendid and appropriate than the high cal?che on C. springs in which she took her daily airing; the deep, hearse-like berline swung on leather bands, which carried her to parties, seemed the perfection of comfort and safety; and she felt something like reverence for the yellow stage coach, with blazoned panels and glass sides, with gold-fringed hammercloth and tasseled straps to which the three dazzlingly arrayed footmen hung behind. It was only brought out on grand occasions, for audiences with the Pope or Ambassadors' receptions, and the Princess felt as if her skies were falling when her son, a "Principe del Solio" , climbing into it in all his magnificence of doublet and ruff, gold chain and sword, to go and attend the Holy Father on Easter morning, called it a "lumbering old pumpkin," and declared that if he had his way he would make a bonfire of it in the courtyard. His revolutionary ideas had not only demonstrated themselves by importing foreign horses, but by filling the coachhouses with French carriages and the stables with English grooms, barbarians who, while fulfilling their other duties faithfully enough, grumbled at having to go to church, and thus deeply scandalized the rest of the well-drilled household.

The Princess's brother, Cardinal Cestaldini, Professor Bianchi's learned patron and friend, tried to console his sister for her son's equine irregularities by pointing out that they were not so extravagant as they appeared, since Onorato was bent on improving the Roman breed and thus adding considerable value to the Santafede horse farms; also that a young man might spend his money on worse things than horses. This was at all events an innocent taste, and, seeing that Onorato had no inclination for deeply serious pursuits, and was too young to get married--well, his mother must be patient and not estrange him by any undue severity. Paolo Cestaldini's own happy lot inspired him with much indulgence for those less blessed. He felt that few were as fortunate as himself, delivered from worldly distractions at the start by what he considered the undeserved grace of a religious vocation, and then provided with the most elevating and beneficent occupation for his leisure. In the delights of Art and Archaeology, subjects which he could discuss with the most learned, he found an inexhaustible source of interest and recreation. Incapable of an ungenerous or insincere thought, he was merciful and gentle in his judgment of others. Religion, which had built up round his sister a wall of defense against the temptations which assault those in the world, had turned the other side of its golden shield to him, and mellowed and enriched the man's ascetic nature and broadened his mind while it refined his appreciations. To the married woman it was a fortress, to the lonely prelate, a garden.

The Princess listened rather despondently to her brother's encouraging exhortations. They did not alter her conviction that Onorato was on the wrong road, and she resolved to pray more earnestly and to apply herself with more fervor to her many works of charity in order to obtain his reformation. Full of these thoughts, she stopped at the church of San Severino on her way home, dismissed her carriage, since the Palazzo Santafede was only a few hundred yards away, and found a good deal of comfort in saying her prayers in the silent, dusky church.

The Excellency was informed that the woman conducting her was Professor Bianchi's servant, and that the little girl had been brought by a contadina from the country a few days before. Nothing more was known. The "donna" rarely spoke to anyone. Did the Excellency wish inquiries to be made?

Certainly not, the Princess replied, Professor Bianchi's family was his private affair. She discouraged all gossip about her tenants. Ferretti, the maestro di casa, was responsible for them and she never interfered with his wise and careful management. Still, he had told her, when letting the rooms, that the Professor was a bachelor; and Bianchi was sufficiently distinguished in his own learned circle for his rather crabbed characteristics to have become more or less known to the public. The Princess, as she mounted the broad marble stairs to her own apartment, wondered whether the child were some relation of his, and felt a certain pity for the bright little thing if she were really condemned to live with the parsimonious man of science and his grim-looking servant.

She was soon to know more about Giannella. Mariuccia was just now terribly puzzled by a new responsibility which immediately faced her. At seven years of age children must begin to go to school, and how was this to be managed for Giannella? There were free schools all over the city, kept by the nuns for the children of the poor. The little ones were collected from their homes in the morning by trusty persons who called for them and brought them back in the evening, receiving a tiny monthly sum from the parents for the service. That was all very well, and the nuns took fine care of the small people during the day; but Mariuccia was obstinately set on one point, and she meant to fight for her convictions; la Giannella was a lady. Providence above seemed to have overlooked the fact and had steadily refused to furnish the wherewithal to keep it before the eyes of the world; but the self-constituted representative of Providence on earth would take no denial on the subject, and nothing would have induced her to let Giannella be herded with the children of the city plebeians, to learn their rough ways, their common speech, to remember when she grew up that she had been as one of them. It was one thing to be a paying nursling in the clean, rich country, cared for and cherished by pious, respectable people like Stefano and Candida, who kept their boys and girls in the fear of God and would have punished a bad word, an act of disobedience or even a disrespectful glance, with a sound beating; it was quite another to mix with low-born children of the city, whose parents, coming from no one knew where, owned no feudal master, no foot of land, and had not been obliged to live up to the stern standard of morals and manners required in the proud "castelli." Giannella had learned her catechism and many pretty hymns from the parish priest, and the first elements of reading from some Franciscan nuns at Castel Gandolfo. Who was to take up the good work and endow her with all the mysterious instruction which it seemed a lady should possess by the time her hair went up and her skirts came down?

Mariuccia put the question to her spiritual director, a Capuchin monk of great age and sanctity, to whom she had been commended by the Curato at home when she first came to Rome as a young woman some eighteen years before, and to whom she had been loyally constant, tramping to his distant monastery on the Palatine once a month from whatever part of the town she happened to be living in. He could not help her much, although he said he would keep the matter in mind and see if some charitable person could get the little girl received as a boarder in one of the many convent schools. But Mariuccia felt that this was a vague outlook, and she confided her trouble to the ever-sympathetic Fra Tommaso, who listened with his usual interest and curiosity to her story.

"But," he objected, when she had ceased speaking, "what has become of the relations who used to send you the money for her? Will they not pay any longer?"

"Fra Tommaso mio," she replied, "I must tell you something. It is now a long time since they sent any money for Giannella. Perhaps they are ill--or affairs may not be going so very well over there--what do I know? Meanwhile I could not let the child want, so you see--"

The sacristan pursed his lips and shook his head. "That is bad--very bad. And has Signor Bianchi been paying for her? That would be a miracle indeed."

"No," said poor Mariuccia, driven to tell the humiliating truth at last, "I have had to find the money myself. Of course the relations will repay me when they have time, but meanwhile two of my nieces have got married, and that cost me a great deal; and now, until I hear from over there," her thumb went over her shoulder indicating the unknown regions where the Brockmann family was supposed to have its being, "I do not know what to do. Giannella ought to go to a good school. She is seven years old, and of an intelligence--God bless her! But I cannot manage it."

During this speech Fra Tommaso had been thinking with all his might. Suddenly he banged his forehead with his clenched fist. "Head of a pumpkin that thou art!" he exclaimed to the delinquent member. "We have got it--and I never even thought of it. That Principessa of yours--the Santafede--she was a Cestaldini."

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