dream of any words or sound she makes; she is very noiseless and still, but she comes to me when she is very sorry or very glad, and I have wakened with the clasp of her dear little arms round my neck.  Only last night—­perhaps because I had gone to sleep thinking of this ball for Phoebe—­my little darling came in my dream, and put up her mouth to be kissed, just as I have seen real babies do to real mothers before going to bed.  But all this is nonsense, dear! only don’t be frightened by Miss Pole from being married.  I can fancy it may be a very happy state, and a little credulity helps one on through life very smoothly—­better than always doubting and doubting and seeing difficulties and disagreeables in everything.”

If I had been inclined to be daunted from matrimony, it would not have been Miss Pole to do it; it would have been the lot of poor Signor Brunoni and his wife.  And yet again, it was an encouragement to see how, through all their cares and sorrows, they thought of each other and not of themselves; and how keen were their joys, if they only passed through each other, or through the little Phoebe.

The signora told me, one day, a good deal about their lives up to this period.  It began by my asking her whether Miss Pole’s story of the twin-brothers were true; it sounded so wonderful a likeness, that I should have had my doubts, if Miss Pole had not been unmarried.  But the signora, or (as we found out she preferred to be called) Mrs Brown, said it was quite true; that her brother-in-law was by many taken for her husband, which was of great assistance to them in their profession; “though,” she continued, “how people can mistake Thomas for the real Signor Brunoni, I can’t conceive; but he says they do; so I suppose I must believe him.  Not but what he is a very good man; I am sure I don’t know how we should have paid our bill at the ‘Rising Sun’ but for the money he sends; but people must know very little about art if they can take him for my husband.  Why, Miss, in the ball trick, where my husband spreads his fingers wide, and throws out his little finger with quite an air and a grace, Thomas just clumps up his hand like a fist, and might have ever so many balls hidden in it.  Besides, he has never been in India, and knows nothing of the proper sit of a turban.”

“Have you been in India?” said I, rather astonished.

“Oh, yes! many a year, ma’am.  Sam was a sergeant in the 31st; and when the regiment was ordered to India, I drew a lot to go, and I was more thankful than I can tell; for it seemed as if it would only be a slow death to me to part from my husband.  But, indeed, ma’am, if I had known all, I don’t know whether I would not rather have died there and then than gone through what I have done since.  To be sure, I’ve been able to comfort Sam, and to be with him; but, ma’am, I’ve lost six children,” said she, looking up at me with those strange eyes that I’ve never noticed but in mothers of dead children—­with