surprise of her large eyes, as well as something tragic in the dignity of
her offended mien. "It is very naughty of you, Miss," continued Leonard,
in a milder tone, for he was both softened by the eyes and awed by the
mien, "and I trust you will not do it again."

"Non capisco," murmured Violante, and the dark eyes filled with tears.
At that moment up came Jackeymo: and Violante, pointing to Leonard, said,
with an effort not to betray her emotion, "Il fanciullo e molto
grossolano."--["He is a very rude boy."]

Jackeymo turned to Leonard with the look of an enraged tiger. "How you
dare, scum of de earth that you are," cried he, "how you dare make cry
the signorina?" And his English not supplying familiar vituperatives
sufficiently, he poured out upon Lenny such a profusion of Italian abuse,
that the boy turned red and white, in a breath, with rage and perplexity.

Violante took instant compassion upon the victim she had made, and with
true feminine caprice now began to scold Jackeymo for his anger, and,
finally approaching Leonard, laid her hand on his arm, and said with a
kindness at once childlike and queenly, and in the prettiest imaginable
mixture of imperfect English and soft Italian, to which I cannot pretend
to do justice, and shall therefore translate: "Don't mind him. I dare
say it was all my fault, only I did not understand you: are not these
things weeds?"

"No, my darling signorina," said Jackeymo in Italian, looking ruefully at
the celery-bed, "they are not weeds, and they sell very well at this time
of the year. But still, if it amuses you to pluck them up, I should like
to see who's to prevent it."