FLORENCE. 59 



A somewhat similar circumstance is said to have occurred 

 in Normandy not so many years ago. 



An old lady whose last hour is near at hand is speaking 



to her little grand daughter : — 



So, it has come ! The doctor's glossy smile deceives me not. I saw 

 him shake his head, whispering, and heard poor Giulia sob without, as 

 slowly creaking he went down the stair. Were they afraid that I should 

 be afraid? I, that have died once, and been laid in tomb? They need 

 not. Little one, look not so pale. I am not raving. Ah ! you never 

 heard the story. Climb up there upon the bed, sit close and listen ; 

 after this one day I shall not tell you stories any more. 



How old are jou, my rose? What ! almost twelve — almost a woman ! 



( A rather remarkable misconception seems to exist in the 

 minds of some with regard to this matter of age. It is quite 

 true that in tropical countries what we should call a child of 

 twelve is " almost a woman." But it is not so at all in Flo- 

 rence, which is in .latitude 43° north, or rather, nearly 44° — 

 the parallel of Portland, Maine, pretty nearly. — J. B. B. ) 



Scarcely more than that was thy fair mother when she bore her bud, 

 and scarcely more was I when long years since I left my father's house a 

 bride in May. You know the house — beside the St. Andrea's Church. 

 Gloomy and rich it stands, and seems to frown on the Mercato humming 

 at its base, and holds on high, out of the common reach, the lilies and 

 carved shields alxjve the door; — and higher still to catch and woo the 

 Sim a little loggia close against the sky. That was my place ever as a 

 child, and with me used to play a kinsman's son, Antonio Rondinelli. 

 Ah ! dear days. Two happy things we were, with none to chide or hint 

 that life was anything but play. 



Sudden the playtime ended. All at once "You must be wed!" 

 they told me. "What is wed?" I asked, but with the word I bent my 

 head, let them put on the garland, smiled to see the glancing jewels tied 

 alx)ut my neck; — and so, half pleased, half puzzled, was led forth by 

 my grave husl)and, older than my sire. Oh, the long years that fol- 

 lowed. It wovild seem that the sun never shone in all those years, or 

 only with a sudden, troubled glint flashed on Antonio's curls as he went 

 by, doffing his cap with eyes of wistful love raised to my face, my con- 

 scious troubled face. Were we so much to blame? Our lives had been 

 turned together, none forbidding, for so long. They let our childish 

 fingers drop the seed, unhindered, that should ripen to full grain. They 



