ed as if she were about to cry, then, apparently
thinking better of it, she said, with a half sob, and dropping the
stately "_you_":

"Well, my papa says that thou art an angel. I suppose thou must do as
thou wilt."

The little boy, meanwhile, had been staring at Mark with solemn eyes. He
said nothing, but he came, finally, to the little schoolmaster and put
his hand in his.

What more might have been said cannot be told, for at this moment the
page appeared again, saying that dinner was served at the third table,
and that the Herr Tutor was to dine there.

The Baroness seemed surprised at this.

"I should have supposed," she said, "that he would have dined with the
Chaplain at the second table."

"No," asserted the page boldly, "the Prince has ordered it."

When alone, the Prince seldom dined ostensibly in public; but often
appeared masqued at the third table, which was that of the actors and
singers. He had given no orders at all about Mark. The arrangement was
entirely of the Signorina's making, who desired that he should dine with
her. It was a bold stroke; and an hour afterwards, when the Court
Chaplain discovered it, measures were taken to prevent its
recurrence--at least for a time.

In whatever way this arrangement came to be made, however, the result
was very advantageous to Mark. In the first place, it was not
formidable. The company took little notice of him. Signor Carricchio
made grotesque faces at others, but not at him. He sat quite safe and
snug by the Signorina, and certainly stared with all his eyes, as she
had said. The long, dark, aquiline features of the men, the mobile play
of humorous farce upon their faces, the constant chatter and sport--what
could the German peasant boy do but stare? His friend taught him how to
hold his knife and fork, and how to eat. The Italians were very nice in
their eating, and the boy picked up more in five minutes from the
Signorina--he was very quick--than he would have done in weeks from the
Chaplain.

He was so scared and frightened, and the girl was so kind to him, that
his boy's heart went out to her.

"What shall I call you, Signorina?" he said, as dinner was over. "You
are so good to me." He had already caught the Italian word.

"My name is Faustina Banti," she said, looking at him with her great
eyes; "but you may call me 'Tina,' if you like. I had a little brother
once who called me that. He died."

"You are so very kind to me, Tina," said the b