think how I sat on mine, in the chaise, between you and father.  He is exceedingly fond of flowers;—­he has been enchanted, this evening, by this splendid Gardenia, and these many crimson flowers that were given me at Villa Correggi, where a friend took us in his carriage.  It was a luxury, this ride, as we have entirely renounced the use of a carriage for ourselves.  How enchanted you would have been with that villa!  It seems now as if, with the certainty of a very limited income, we could be so happy!  But I suppose, if we had it, one of us would die, or the baby.  Do not you die, my beloved mother;—­let us together have some halcyon moments, again, with God, with nature, with sweet childhood, with the remembrance of pure trust and good intent; away from perfidy and care, and the blight of noble designs.

Ossoli wishes you were here, almost as much as I. When there is anything really lovely and tranquil, he often says, “Would not ’La Madre’ like that?” He wept when he heard your letter.  I never saw him weep at any other time, except when his father died, and when the French entered Rome.  He has, I think, even a more holy feeling about a mother, from having lost his own, when very small.  It has been a life-long want with him.  He often shows me a little scar on his face, made by a jealous dog, when his mother was caressing him as an infant.  He prizes that blemish much.

* * * * *

Florence, December 1, 1849.—­I do not know what to write about the baby, he changes so much,—­has so many characters.  He is like me in that, for his father’s character is simple and uniform, though not monotonous, any more than are the flowers of spring flowers of the valley.  Angelino is now in the most perfect rosy health,—­a very gay, impetuous, ardent, but sweet-tempered child.  He seems to me to have nothing in common with his first babyhood, with its ecstatic smiles, its exquisite sensitiveness, and a distinction in the gesture and attitudes that struck everybody.  His temperament is apparently changed by taking the milk of these robust women.  He is now come to quite a knowing age,—­fifteen months.

In the morning, as soon as dressed, he signs to come into our room; then draws our curtain with his little dimpled hand, kisses me rather violently, pats my face, laughs, crows, shows his teeth, blows like the bellows, stretches himself, and says “bravo.”  Then, having shown off all his accomplishments, he expects, as a reward, to be tied in his chair, and have his playthings.  These engage him busily, but still he calls to us to sing and drum, to enliven the scene.  Sometimes he summons me to kiss his hand, and laughs very much at this.  Enchanting is that baby-laugh, all dimples and glitter,—­so strangely arch and innocent!  Then I wash and dress him.  That is his great time.  He makes it last as long as he can, insisting to dress and wash me the while, kicking, throwing the water about, and full of all manner of tricks, such as, I think, girls never dream of.  Then comes his walk;—­we have beautiful walks here for him, protected by fine trees, always warm in mid-winter.  The bands are playing in the distance, and children of all ages are moving about, and sitting with their nurses.  His walk and sleep give me about three hours in the middle of the day.