give me new faith and ardour."

Our hostess turned to me, gazed at me a moment rather inscrutably, and
then tapping her forehead with the gesture she had used a minute before,
"He has a magnificent genius!" she said, with perfect gravity.

"I am inclined to think so," I answered, with a smile.

"Eh, why do you smile?" she cried. "If you doubt it, you must see the
_bambino_!" And she took the lamp and conducted me to the other side of
the room, where on the wall, in a plain black frame, hung a large drawing
in red chalk. Beneath it was fastened a little howl for holy water. The
drawing represented a very young child, entirely naked, half nestling
back against his mother's gown, but with his two little arms
outstretched, as if in the act of benediction. It was executed with
singular freedom and power, and yet seemed vivid with the sacred bloom of
infancy. A sort of dimpled elegance and grace, mingled with its
boldness, recalled the touch of Correggio. "That's what he can do!" said
my hostess. "It's the blessed little boy whom I lost. It's his very
image, and the Signor Teobaldo gave it me as a gift. He has given me
many things besides!"

I looked at the picture for some time and admired it immensely. Turning
back to Theobald I assured him that if it were hung among the drawings in
the Uffizi and labelled with a glorious name it would hold its own. My
praise seemed to give him extreme pleasure; he pressed my hands, and his
eyes filled with tears. It moved him apparently with the desire to
expatiate on the history of the drawing, for he rose and made his adieux
to our companion, kissing her band with the same mild ardour as before.
It occurred to me that the offer of a similar piece of gallantry on my