in the window; I stood there for some minutes--I don't know why, for I
have no taste for mosaic. In a moment a little girl came and stood
beside me--a little girl with a frowsy Italian head, carrying a basket. I
turned away, but, as I turned, my eyes happened to fall on her basket. It
was covered with a napkin, and on the napkin was pinned a piece of paper,
inscribed with an address. This address caught my glance--there was a
name on it I knew. It was very legibly written--evidently by a scribe
who had made up in zeal what was lacking in skill. _Contessa
Salvi-Scarabelli, Via Ghibellina_--so ran the superscription; I looked at
it for some moments; it caused me a sudden emotion. Presently the little
girl, becoming aware of my attention, glanced up at me, wondering, with a
pair of timid brown eyes.

"Are you carrying your basket to the Countess Salvi?" I asked.

The child stared at me. "To the Countess Scarabelli."

"Do you know the Countess?"

"Know her?" murmured the child, with an air of small dismay.

"I mean, have you seen her?"

"Yes, I have seen her." And then, in a moment, with a sudden soft
smile--"_E bella_!" said the little girl. She was beautiful herself as
she said it.

"Precisely; and is she fair or dark?"

The child kept gazing at me. "_Bionda--bionda_," she answered, looking