Oh, if he could always be with her, he really, after all, would wish for no other heaven! "We are going to have such a picnic!" Zara told him.

"Papa and I have brought a new tablecloth, and some pretty cups and saucers, and spoons, and knives, and forks--and see! such buns! English buns for you to toast, Mirko mio! You must be the little cook, while I lay the table." And the child clapped his hands with glee and helped to take the papers off; he stroked the pretty roses on the china with his delicate, little forefinger--he had Mimo's caressing ways with everything he admired and loved.

He had never broken his toys, as other children do; accidental catastrophes to them had always caused him pain and weeping.

And these bright, new flowery cups should be his special care, to wash, and dry, and guard.
He grew merry as a cricket, and his laughter pealed over the paper cap Mimo made for him and the towel his sister had for an apron.

They were to be the servants, and Mimo a lordly guest.
And soon the table was laid, and the buns toasted and buttered; Zara had even bought a vase of the same china, in which she placed a bunch of autumn red roses, to match those painted on it and this was a particular joy.
"The Apache," which had not yet found a purchaser, stood on one easel, and from it the traveling rug hung to the other, concealing all unsightly things, and yesterday Mimo had bought from the Tottenham Court Road a cheap basket armchair with bright cretonne cushions.