sight. When they re-entered the house, Floracita occupied herself with
various articles of her wardrobe; consulting with Rosa whether any
alterations would be necessary before they were packed for France.
It evidently cost Rosa some effort to attend to her innumerable
questions, for the incessant chattering disturbed her revery. 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 frère!
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--"