ring the last year or so,
he had renewed his old intimacy with the widow and the boy; and he
had noticed, with great hope and great fear, the rapid growth of
an intellect, which now stood out from the lowly circumstances that
surrounded it in bold and unharmonizing relief.

It was the evening after his return home that the parson strolled up to
the Casino. He put Leonard Fairfield's Prize Essay in his pocket; for he
felt that he could not let the young man go forth into the world without
a preparatory lecture, and he intended to scourge poor Merit with the
very laurel wreath which it had received from Apollo. But in this he
wanted Riccabocca's assistance; or rather he feared that, if he did not
get the philosopher on his side, the philosopher might undo all the work
of the parson.

CHAPTER XVI.

A sweet sound came through the orange boughs, and floated to the ears
of the parson, as he wound slowly up the gentle ascent,--so sweet,
so silvery, he paused in delight--unaware, wretched man! that he was
thereby conniving at Papistical errors. Soft it came and sweet; softer
and sweeter,--"Ave Maria!" Violante was chanting the evening hymn to the
Virgin Mother. The parson at last distinguished the sense of the words,
and shook his head with the pious shake of an orthodox Protestant.
He broke from the spell resolutely, and walked on with a sturdy
step. Gaining the terrace, he found the little family seated under an
awning,--Mrs. Riccabocca knitting; the signor with his arms folded on
his breast: the book he had been reading a few moments before had fallen
on the ground, and his dark eyes were soft and dreamy. Violante had
finished her hymn, and seated herself on the ground between the two,
pillowing her head on her stepmother's lap, but with her hand resting on
her father's knee, and her gaze fixed fondly on his face.

"Good-evening," said Mr. Dale. Violante stole up to him, and, pulling
him so as to bring his ear nearer to her lip, whispered, "Talk to Papa,
do,--and cheerfully; he is sad."

She escaped from him as she said this, and appeared to busy herself with
watering the flowers arranged on stands round the awning. But she kept
her swimming lustrous eyes wistfully on her father.

"How fares it with you, my dear friend?" said the parson, kindly, as he
rested his hand on the Italian's shoulder. "You must not let him get out
of spirits, Mrs. Riccabocca."

"I am very ungrateful to her if I ever am so," said the po