The pensive mood, that had enveloped them all in a little cloud the preceding evening, was gone in the morning.  There was the usual bantering during breakfast, and after they rose from table they discussed in a lively manner various plans concerning their residence in France.  Rosabella evidently felt much less pleasure in the prospect than did her younger sister; and her father, conjecturing the reason, was the more anxious to expedite their departure.  “I must not linger here talking,” said he.  “I must go and attend to business; for there are many things to be arranged before we can set out on our travels,”

“Hasta luego, Papasito mio” said Rosabella, with an affectionate smile.

“Au revoir, cher papa” said Floracita, as she handed him his hat.

He patted her head playfully as he said, “What a polyglot family we are!  Your grandfather’s Spanish, your grandmother’s French, and your father’s English, all mixed up in an olla podrida.  Good morning, my darlings.”

Floracita skipped out on the piazza, calling after him, “Papa, what is polyglot?”

He turned and shook his finger laughingly at her, as he exclaimed, “O, you little ignoramus!”

The sisters lingered on the piazza, watching him till he was out of sight.  When they re-entered the house, Floracita occupied herself with various articles of her wardrobe; consulting with Rosa whether any alterations would be necessary before they were packed for France.  It evidently cost Rosa some effort to attend to her innumerable questions, for the incessant chattering disturbed her revery.  At every interval she glanced round the room with a sort of farewell tenderness.  It was more to her than the home of a happy childhood; for nearly all the familiar objects had become associated with glances and tones, the memory of which excited restless longings in her heart.  As she stood gazing on the blooming garden and the little fountain, whose sparkling rills crossed each other in the sunshine like a silvery network strung with diamonds, she exclaimed, “O Floracita, we shall never be so happy anywhere else as we have been here.”

“How do you know that, sistita mia?” rejoined the lively little chatterer.  “Only think, we have never been to a ball!  And when we get to France, Papasito will go everywhere with us.  He says he will.”

“I should like to hear operas and see ballets in Paris,” said Rosabella; “but I wish we could come back here before long.”

Floracita’s laughing eyes assumed the arch expression which rendered them peculiarly bewitching, and she began to sing,—­

    “Petit blanc, mon bon frere! 
    Ha! ha! petit blanc si doux! 
    Il n’y a rien sur la terre
    De si joli que vous.

    “Un petit blanc que j’aime—­”

A quick flush mantled her sister’s face, and she put her hand over the mischievous mouth, exclaiming, “Don’t, Flora! don’t!”