es, each separated from the other by scroll-works of
fantastic arabesques. Here a Cupid was trundling a wheelbarrow full of
hearts, which he appeared to be selling to an ugly old fellow, with a
money-bag in his hand--probably Plutus. There Diogenes might be seen
walking through a market-place, with his lantern in his hand, in search
of an honest man, whilst the children jeered at him, and the curs
snapped at his heels. In another place a lion was seen half dressed in a
fox's hide, while a wolf in a sheep's mask was conversing very amicably
with a young lamb. Here again might be seen the geese stretching out
their necks from the Roman Capitol in full cackle, while the stout
invaders were beheld in the distance, running off as hard as they
could. In short, in all these quaint entablatures some pithy sarcasm was
symbolically conveyed; only over the mantel piece was the design graver
and more touching. It was the figure of a man in a pilgrim's garb,
chained to the earth by small but innumerable ligaments, while a phantom
likeness of himself, his shadow, was seen hastening down what seemed an
interminable vista; and underneath were written the pathetic words of
Horace--

"Patriae quis exul
Se quoque fugit?"

["What exile from his country can also fly from himself?"]

The furniture of the room was extremely simple, and somewhat scanty;
yet it was arranged so as to impart an air of taste and elegance to the
room. Even a few plaster busts and statues, though bought but of some
humble itinerant, had their classical effect, glistening from out
stands of flowers that were grouped around them, or backed by
graceful screen-works formed from twisted osiers, which, by the simple
contrivance of trays at the bottom filled with earth, served for living
parasitical plants, with gay flowers contrasting thick ivy leaves,
and gave to the whole room the aspect of a bower. "May I ask your
permission?" said the Italian, with his finger on the seal of the
letter.

"Oh, yes," said Frank, with naivete.

Riccabocca broke the seal, and a slight smile stole over his
countenance. Then he turned a little aside from Frank, shaded his face
with his hand, and seemed to muse. "Mrs. Hazeldean," said he, at last,
"does me very great honour. I hardly recognize her handwriting, or I
should have been more impatient to open the letter." The dark eyes were
lifted over the spectacles and went right into Frank's unprotected
and