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the devil with the priest!” cried the servant; then crossing himself rapidly, he added, “I did not mean that, Monsignore San Giacomo,—forgive me! But your Excellency does not think of making a nun of his only child!”

      [The title of Excellency does not, in Italian, necessarily express any exalted rank, but is often given by servants to their masters.]

      “And yet why not?” said Riccabocca, mournfully; “what can I give her in the world? Is the land of the stranger a better refuge than the home of peace in her native clime?”

      “In the land of the stranger beats her father’s heart!”

      “And if that beat were stilled, what then? Ill fares the life that a single death can bereave of all. In a convent at least (and the priest’s influence can obtain her that asylum amongst her equals and amidst her sex) she is safe from trial and from penury—to her grave!”

      “Penury! Just see how rich we shall be when we take those fields at Michaelmas.”

      “Pazzie!”—[Follies]—said Riccabocca, listlessly. “Are these suns more serene than ours, or the soil more fertile? Yet in our own Italy, saith the proverb, ‘He who sows land reaps more care than corn.’ It were different,” continued the father, after a pause, and in a more resolute tone, “if I had some independence, however small, to count on,—nay, if among all my tribe of dainty relatives there were but one female who would accompany Violante to the exile’s hearth,—Ishmael had his Hagar. But how can we two rough-bearded men provide for all the nameless wants and cares of a frail female child? And she has been so delicately reared,—the woman-child needs the fostering hand and tender eye of a woman.”

      “And with a word,” said Jackeymo, resolutely, “the padrone might secure to his child all that he needs to save her from the sepulchre of a convent; and ere the autumn leaves fall, she might be sitting on his knee. Padrone, do not think that you can conceal from me the truth, that you love your child better than all things in the world,—now the Patria is as dead to you as the dust of your fathers,—and your heart-strings would crack with the effort to tear her from them, and consign her to a convent. Padrone, never again to hear her voice, never again to see her face! Those little arms that twined round your neck that dark night, when we fled fast for life and freedom, and you said, as you felt their clasp, ‘Friend, all is not yet lost.’”

      “Giacomo!” exclaimed the father, reproachfully, and his voice seemed to choke him. Riccabocca turned away, and walked restlessly to and fro the terrace; then, lifting his arms with a wild gesture, as he still continued his long irregular strides, he muttered, “Yes, Heaven is my witness that I could have borne reverse and banishment without a murmur, had I permitted myself that young partner in exile and privation. Heaven is my witness that, if I hesitate now, it is because I would not listen to my own selfish heart. Yet never, never to see her again,—my child! And it was but as the infant that I beheld her! O friend, friend!” (and, stopping short with a burst of uncontrollable emotion, he bowed his head upon his servant’s shoulder), “thou knowest what I have endured and suffered at my hearth, as in my country; the wrong, the perfidy, the—the—” His voice again failed him; he clung to his servant’s breast, and his whole frame shook.

      “But your child, the innocent one—think now only of her!” faltered Giacomo, struggling with his own sobs. “True, only of her,” replied the exile, raising his face, “only of her. Put aside thy thoughts for thyself, friend,—counsel me. If I were to send for Violante, and if, transplanted to these keen airs, she drooped and died—Look, look, the priest says that she needs such tender care; or if I myself were summoned from the world, to leave her in it alone, friendless, homeless, breadless perhaps, at the age of woman’s sharpest trial against temptation, would she not live to mourn the cruel egotism that closed on her infant innocence the gates of the House of God?”

      Jackeymo was appalled by this appeal; and indeed Riccabocca had never before thus reverently spoken of the cloister. In his hours of philosophy, he was wont to sneer at monks and nuns, priesthood and superstition. But now, in that hour of emotion, the Old Religion reclaimed her empire; and the sceptical world-wise man, thinking only of his child, spoke and felt with a child’s simple faith.

      CHAPTER XX

      “But again I say,” murmured Jackeymo, scarce audibly, and after a long silence, “if the padrone would make up his mind—to marry!”

      He expected that his master would start up in his customary indignation at such a suggestion,—nay, he might not have been sorry so to have changed the current of feeling; but the poor Italian only winced slightly, and mildly withdrawing himself from his servant’s supporting arm, again paced the terrace, but this time quietly and in silence. A quarter of an hour thus passed. “Give me the pipe,” said Dr. Riccabocca, passing into the belvidere.

      Jackeymo again struck the spark, and, wonderfully relieved at the padrone’s return to the habitual adviser, mentally besought his sainted namesake to bestow a double portion of soothing wisdom on the benignant influences of the weed.

      CHAPTER XXI

      Dr. Riccabocca had been some little time in the solitude of the belvidere, when Lenny Fairfield, not knowing that his employer was therein, entered to lay down a book which the doctor had lent him, with injunctions to leave it on a certain table when done with. Riccabocca looked up at the sound of the young peasant’s step.

      “I beg your honour’s pardon, I did not know—”

      “Never mind: lay the book there. I wish to speak with you. You look well, my child: this air agrees with you as well as that of Hazeldean?”

      “Oh, yes, Sir!”

      “Yet it is higher ground,—more exposed?”

      “That can hardly be, sir,” said Lenny; “there are many plants grow here which don’t flourish at the squire’s. The hill yonder keeps off the east wind, and the place lays to the south.”

      “Lies, not lays, Lenny. What are the principal complaints in these parts?”

      “Eh, sir?”

      “I mean what maladies, what diseases?”

      “I never heard tell of any, sir, except the rheumatism.”

      “No low fevers, no consumption?”

      “Never heard of them, sir.”

      Riccabocca drew a long breath, as if relieved. “That seems a very kind family at the Hall.”

      “I have nothing to say against it,” answered Lenny, bluntly. “I have not been treated justly. But as that book says, sir, ‘It is not every one who comes into the world with a silver spoon in his mouth.’”

      Little thought the doctor that those wise maxims may leave sore thoughts behind them! He was too occupied with the subject most at his own heart to think then of what was in Lenny Fairfield’s.

      “Yes; a kind, English domestic family. Did you see much of Miss Hazeldean?”

      “Not so much as of the Lady.”

      “Is she liked in the village, think you?”

      “Miss Jemima? Yes. She never did harm. Her little dog bit me once,—she did not ask me to beg its pardon, she asked mine! She’s a very nice young lady; the girls say she is very affable; and,” added Lenny, with a smile, “there are always more weddings going on when she is down at the Hall.”

      “Oh!” said Riccabocca. Then, after a long whiff, “Did you ever see her play with the little children? Is she fond of children, do you think?”

      “Lord, sir, you guess everything! She’s never so pleased as when she’s playing with the babies.”

      “Humph!”

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