The good wife looked on affectionately, and could not eat for joy; but suddenly she rose, and placed on the artist's temples a laurel wreath, which she had woven beforehand in fond anticipation; and Viola, on the other side her brother, the barbiton, rearranged the chaplet, and, smoothing back her father's hair, whispered, "Caro Padre, you will not let HIM scold me again!" Then poor Pisani, rather distracted between the two, and excited both by the lacrima and his triumph, turned to the younger child with so naive and grotesque a pride, "I don't know which to thank the most.

You give me so much joy, child,--I am so proud of thee and myself.

But he and I, poor fellow, have been so often unhappy together!" Viola's sleep was broken,--that was natural.

The intoxication of vanity and triumph, the happiness in the happiness she had caused, all this was better than sleep.

But still from all this, again and again her thoughts flew to those haunting eyes, to that smile with which forever the memory of the triumph, of the happiness, was to be united.