little of him,--and that little, never alone. Thus it was very sweet
to receive such consoling words as those she had had from him that
day--"Time is nothing,--space is nothing,--and my true and
passionate love for you makes an invisible bridge over which my
thoughts run and fly to your sweet presence!" The letter lay warm in
her bosom just under the "Gloire de France" rose; she pressed it
tenderly with her little hand now simply for the childish pleasure
of hearing the paper rustle, and she smiled dreamily.

"Florian," she murmured half aloud!--"MY Florian!" And she recalled
certain lines of verse he had written to her,--for most Italians
write verse as easily as they eat maccaroni;--and there are
countless rhymes to "amor" in the dulcet Dante-tongue, whereas our
rough English can only supply for the word "love" some three or four
similar sounds,--which is perhaps a fortunate thing. Angela spoke
English and French as easily and fluently as her native Tuscan, and
had read the most notable books in all three languages, so she was
well aware that of all kinds of human speech in the world there is
none so adapted for making love and generally telling lies in, as
the "lingua Toscana in bocca Romana." And this particular "lingua"
Florian possessed in fullest perfection of sweetness, so far as
making love was concerned;--of the telling of lies he was, according
to Angela's estimate of him, most nobly ignorant. She had not many
idle moments, however, for meditation on her love matters, or for
dreamy study of the delicate beginnings of the autumnal tints on the
trees of the Bois, for the carriage she had been awaiting soon made
its appearance, and bowling rapidly down the road drew up sharply at
the door. She had just time to perceive that her uncle had not
arrived alone, when he entered,--and with a pretty grace and
reverence for his holy calling, she dropped on one knee before him