iolante that Mrs. Riccabocca had taken a great fancy to the
picture-book, and that he should be very glad to have the doll, upon
which Violante hastened to give them both away, and was never so
happy as when Mamma (as she called Mrs. Riccabocca) was admiring the
picture-book, and Riccabocca with austere gravity dandled the doll.
Then Riccabocca assured her that she could be of great use to him in
the garden; and Violante instantly put into movement her spade, hoe, and
wheelbarrow.

This last occupation brought her into immediate contact with Mr. Leonard
Fairfield; and that personage one morning, to his great horror, found
Miss Violante had nearly exterminated a whole celery-bed, which she had
ignorantly conceived to be a crop of weeds.

Lenny was extremely angry. He snatched away the hoe, and said angrily,
"You must not do that, Miss. I'll tell your papa if you--"

Violante drew herself up, and never having been so spoken to before,
at least since her arrival in England, there was something comic in the
surprise of her large eyes, as well as something tragic in the dignity
of her offended mien. "It is very naughty of you, Miss," continued
Leonard, in a milder tone, for he was both softened by the eyes and awed
by the mien, "and I trust you will not do it again."

"Non capisco," murmured Violante, and the dark eyes filled with tears.
At that moment up came Jackeymo: and Violante, pointing to Leonard,
said, with an effort not to betray her emotion, "Il fanciullo e molto
grossolano."--["He is a very rude boy."]

Jackeymo turned to Leonard with the look of an enraged tiger. "How you
dare, scum of de earth that you are," cried he, "how you dare make cry
the signorina?" And his English not supplying familiar vituperatives
sufficiently, he poured out upon Lenny such a profusion of Italian
abuse, that the boy turned red and white, in a breath, with rage and
perplexity.

Violante took instant compassion upon the victim she had made, and with
true feminine caprice now began to scold Jackeymo for his anger, and,
finally approaching Leonard, laid her hand on his arm, and said with a
kindness at once childlike and queenly, and in the prettiest imaginable
mixture of imperfect English and soft Italian, to which I cannot pretend
to do justice, and shall therefore translate: "Don't mind him. I dare
say it was all my fault, only I did not understand you: are not these
things weeds?"

"No, my darling signorina," said Jackeymo in I