ying, "She's here again, sir!"

"Donna Roma?"

"Yes."

"Come in," cried David Rossi, and from the threshold of the open hall
she saw him, in the middle of the floor, with a little boy pitching and
heaving like a young sea-lion in his arms.

He slipped the boy to his feet and said, "Run to the lady and kiss her
hand, Joseph." But the boy stood off shyly, and, stepping into the room,
Roma knelt to the child and put her arms about him.

"What a big little man, to be sure! His name is Joseph, is it? And
what's his age? Six! Think of that! Have I seen him before, Mrs. Rocco?
Yes? Perhaps he was here the day I called before? Was he? So? How stupid
of me to forget! Ah, of course, now I remember, he was in his
nightdress and asleep, and Mr. Rossi was carrying him to bed."

The mother's heart was captured in a moment. "Do you love children,
Donna Roma?"

"Indeed, I do!"

During this passage between the women Bruno had grunted his way out of
the room, and was now sidling down the staircase, being suddenly smitten
by his conscience with the memory of a message he had omitted to
deliver.

"Come, Joseph," said Elena. But Joseph, who had recovered from his
bashfulness, was in no hurry to be off, and Roma said:

"No, no! I've only called for a moment. It is to say," turning to David
Rossi, "that there's a meet of the foxhounds on the Campagna to-morrow,
and to tell you from Don Camillo that if you ride and would care to
go...."

"_You_ are going?"

"With the Princess, yes! But there will be no necessity to follow the
hounds all day long, and perhaps coming home...."

"I will be there."

"How charming! That's all I came to say, and so...."

She made a pretence of turning to go, but he said:

"Wait! Now that you are here I have something to show to you."

"To me?"

"Come in," he cried, and, blowing a kiss to the boy, Roma followed Rossi
into the sitting-room.

"One moment," he said, and he left her to go into the bedroom.

When he came back he had a small parcel in his hands wrapped in a lace
handkerchief.

"We have talked so much of my old friend Roselli that I thought you
might like to see his portrait."

"His portrait? Have you really got his portrait?"

"Here it is," and he put into her hands the English photograph which
used to hang by his bed.

She took it eagerly and looked at it steadfastly, while her lips
trembled and her eyes grew moist. There was silence for a moment, and
then she said, in a