OUR SENTIMENTAL GARDEN 

 there one misty afternoon in November, at an hour when 

 all the crazy little houses of the ancient Piazza seem to 

 fold up and huddle together in the purple Roman dusk. 

 The doratore s wares winked through the dimness/ and 

 having duly knocked their heads against wreaths of 

 dangling frames in his doorway, the pilgrims proceeded to 

 steer a perilous path among the heaps of gilded debris 

 within. 



The doratore, made visible only by his paper cap, was 

 seated in a nest of angels, tinkering at a fat cherub and 

 whistling gaily. Hearing steps he poked his head through 

 the large oval of an empty mirror, and stared uncon- 

 cernedly at the visitors, whose advance was punctuated 

 by cataclysms of falling frames, church candlesticks, and 

 other " oggetti religiosi." 



At the fifth or sixth tumble, he rolled away from his 

 angels with unimpaired cheerfulness, and apologized. 

 " Scusir scusi \ " Smilingly he picked up a broken wing 

 and a bit of acanthus leaf. " Scusi ! " again. " Aha ! a 

 letter'/' 



Here the fat laugh merged into a bellow which made the 

 walls ring, and brought a dirty little urchin tumbling down 

 a ladder from some loft overhead. The urchin diving 

 under a heap of prostrate apostles, produced a stick with 

 an iron spike, which he held respectfully under his patron's 

 chin. The doratore stuck a candle on the spike, lit it, 

 and with the flame in fearful proximity to his bearded face, 

 proceeded to open the letter. 



" Aha ! from the noble family at Villino Loki ! " Here he 

 took off his cap with a flourish and did not replace it. 

 "The signor Inglese, is he well?~Mi piace. And the 

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