“Florian,” she murmured half aloud!—­“My Florian!” And she recalled certain lines of verse he had written to her,—­for most Italians write verse as easily as they eat maccaroni;—­and there are countless rhymes to “amor” in the dulcet Dante-tongue, whereas our rough English can only supply for the word “love” some three or four similar sounds,—­which is perhaps a fortunate thing.  Angela spoke English and French as easily and fluently as her native Tuscan, and had read the most notable books in all three languages, so she was well aware that of all kinds of human speech in the world there is none so adapted for making love and generally telling lies in, as the “lingua Toscana in bocca Romana.”  And this particular “lingua” Florian possessed in fullest perfection of sweetness, so far as making love was concerned;—­of the telling of lies he was, according to Angela’s estimate of him, most nobly ignorant.  She had not many idle moments, however, for meditation on her love matters, or for dreamy study of the delicate beginnings of the autumnal tints on the trees of the Bois, for the carriage she had been awaiting soon made its appearance, and bowling rapidly down the road drew up sharply at the door.  She had just time to perceive that her uncle had not arrived alone, when he entered,—­and with a pretty grace and reverence for his holy calling, she dropped on one knee before him to receive his benediction, which he gave by laying a hand on her soft hair and signing the cross on her brow.  After which he raised her and looked at her fondly.

“My dear child!”—­he said, tenderly,—­and again “My dear child!”

Then he turned towards Manuel, who had followed him and was now standing quietly on the threshold of the apartment.

“Angela, this is one of our Lord’s ‘little ones,’” he said,—­“He is alone in the world, and I have made myself his guardian and protector for the present.  You will be kind to him—­yes—­as kind as if you were his sister, will you not?—­for we are all one family in the sight of Heaven, and sorrow and loneliness and want can but strengthen the love which should knit us all together.”

Raising her candid eyes, and fixing them on Manuel, Angela smiled.  The thoughtful face and pathetic expression of the boy greatly attracted her, and in her heart she secretly wondered where her uncle had found so intelligent and inspired-looking a creature.  But one of her UNfeminine attributes was a certain lack of curiosity concerning other people’s affairs, and an almost fastidious dislike of asking questions on matters which did not closely concern her.  So she contented herself with giving him that smile of hers which in itself expressed all sweetness, and saying gently,—­

“You are very welcome!  You must try to feel that wherever my uncle is,—­that is ’home’.”

“I have felt that from the first,”—­replied Manuel in his soft musical voice, “I was all alone when my lord the Cardinal found me,- -but with him the world seems full of friends.”