"Does the little one know the language of my country?"

"No: of course she don't. I don't," said Teddy, looking a little
anxiously into Cherry's face, and wondering in his own heart if she
might not have known Italian in that former life, of whose loves and
interests he had always been so jealous.

Giovanni looked curiously at the two children. Cherry, in recovering
from her illness, was regaining the wonderful beauty, that, for a
time, had seemed lost. The remnant of her golden hair spared by
Mother Winch's shears had fallen off after the first attack of
fever, and was now replaced by thick, short curls of a sunny brown,
clustering about her white forehead with a careless grace far more
bewitching than the elaborate ringlets Susan had been so proud of
manufacturing; while long confinement to the house had rendered the
delicate complexion so pearly in its whiteness, so exquisite in its
rose-tints, that one could hardly believe it possible that flesh and
blood should become so etherealized even while gaining health and
strength.

The subtle eye of the Italian marked every point of this exquisite
loveliness, ran admiringly over the outlines of the graceful figure,
the delicate hands and little feet, the classic curve of the lips,
the thin nostrils and tiny ears; then returned to the clear, full
eyes, with their pencilled brows and heavy lashes, and smiled at the
earnestness of the gaze that met his own. Then, from this lovely and
patrician face, the Italian's eyes wandered to Teddy's coarse and
unformed features, and figure of uncouth strength.

"Nightingales are not hatched from hens' eggs," muttered Giovanni in