At every interval she glanced round the room with a sort of farewell tenderness.

It was more to her than the home of a happy childhood; for nearly all the familiar objects had become associated with glances and tones, the memory of which excited restless longings in her heart.

As she stood gazing on the blooming garden and the little fountain, whose sparkling rills crossed each other in the sunshine like a silvery network strung with diamonds, she exclaimed, "O Floracita, we shall never be so happy anywhere else as we have been here." "How do you know that, _sistita mia_ ?" rejoined the lively little chatterer.

"Only think, we have never been to a ball! And when we get to France, Papasito will go everywhere with us.

He says he will." "I should like to hear operas and see ballets in Paris," said Rosabella; "but I wish we could come back _here_ before long." Floracita's laughing eyes assumed the arch expression which rendered them peculiarly bewitching, and she began to sing,-- "Petit blanc, mon bon frere! Ha! ha! petit blanc si doux! Il n'y a rien sur la terre De si joli que vous.
"Un petit blanc que j'aime--" A quick flush mantled her sister's face, and she put her hand over the mischievous mouth, exclaiming, "Don't, Flora! don't!" The roguish little creature went laughing and capering out of the room, and her voice was still heard singing,-- "Un petit blanc que j'aime." The arrival of Signor Papanti soon summoned her to rehearse a music lesson.