name as that! And a sweet lady, no
doubt. Come! Come!"

But Carmina still resisted. "I have never even seen my aunt," she said.
"It is dreadful to pass my life with a stranger. Remember, I was only
a child when you came to us after my mother's death. It is hardly six
months yet since I lost my father. I have no one but you, and, when I go
to this new home, you will leave me. I only ask for one more day to be
together, before we part."

The poor old duenna drew back out of sight, in the shadow of a
curtain--and began to cry. Carmina took her hand, under cover of
a tablecloth; Carmina knew how to console her. "We will go and see
sights," she whispered "and, when dinner-time comes, you shall have a
glass of the Porto-porto-wine."

Teresa looked round out of the shadow, as easily comforted as a child.
"Sights!" she exclaimed--and dried her tears. "Porto-porto-wine!" she
repeated--and smacked her withered lips at the relishing words. "Ah,
my child, you have not forgotten the consolations I told you of, when
I lived in London in my young days. To think of you, with an English
father, and never in London till now! I used to go to museums and
concerts sometimes, when my English mistress was pleased with me. That
gracious lady often gave me a glass of the fine strong purple wine. The
Holy Virgin grant that Aunt Gallilee may be as kind a woman! Such a head
of hair as the other one she cannot hope to have. It was a joy to dress
it. Do you think I wouldn't stay here in England with you if I could?
What is to become of my old man in Italy, with his cursed asthma, and
nobody to nurse him? Oh, but those were dull years in London! The black
endless streets--the dreadful Sundays--the hundreds of thousands of
people, always in a hurry; always with grim faces set on business,
business, business! I was glad to go back and be married in Italy. And
here I am in London again, after God knows how many years. No matter.
We will enjoy ourselves to-day; and when we go to Madam Gallilee's
to-morrow, we will tell a little lie, and say we only arrived on the
evening that has not yet come."

The duenna's sense of humour was so tickled by this prospective view of
the little lie, that she leaned back in her chair and laughed. Carmina's
rare smile showed itself faintly. The terrible first interview with the
unknown aunt still oppressed her. She took up a newspaper in despair.
"Oh, my old dear!" she said, "let us get out of this dreadful room, and
b