They turned them round slowly, unable to distinguish the colors through their swimming tears.
"How like Papasito, to be so kind to the poor woman, and so thoughtful to please us," said Rosabella.

"But he was always so." "And he must have told her what flowers to put on the baskets," said Floracita.

"You know Mamita often called me _Pensee vivace_.

O, there never _was_ such a Papasito!" Notwithstanding the sadness that invested tokens coming as it were from the dead, they inspired a consoling consciousness of his presence; and their work seemed pleasanter all the day for having their little baskets by them.
The next morning witnessed a private conference between Madame and the Signor.

If any one had seen them without hearing their conversation, he would certainly have thought they were rehearsing some very passionate scene in a tragedy.
The fiery Italian rushed up and down the room, plucking his hair; while the Frenchwoman ever and anon threw up her hands, exclaiming, "_Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu_!" When the violence of their emotions had somewhat abated, Madame said, "Signor, there must be some mistake about this.