wept when he heard your letter. I never saw
him weep at any other time, except when his father died, and when the
French entered Rome. He has, I think, even a more holy feeling about
a mother, from having lost his own, when very small. It has been a
life-long want with him. He often shows me a little scar on his face,
made by a jealous dog, when his mother was caressing him as an infant.
He prizes that blemish much.

* * * * *

_Florence, December_ 1, 1849.--I do not know what to write about the
baby, he changes so much,--has so many characters. He is like me in
that, for his father's character is simple and uniform, though not
monotonous, any more than are the flowers of spring flowers of the
valley. Angelino is now in the most perfect rosy health,--a very gay,
impetuous, ardent, but sweet-tempered child. He seems to me to have
nothing in common with his first babyhood, with its ecstatic smiles,
its exquisite sensitiveness, and a distinction in the gesture and
attitudes that struck everybody. His temperament is apparently changed
by taking the milk of these robust women. He is now come to quite a
knowing age,--fifteen months.

In the morning, as soon as dressed, he signs to come into our room;
then draws our curtain with his little dimpled hand, kisses me rather
violently, pats my face, laughs, crows, shows his teeth, blows like
the bellows, stretches himself, and says "_bravo_." Then, having shown
off all his accomplishments, he expects, as a reward, to be tied in
his chair, and have his playthings. These engage him busily, but still
he calls to us to sing and drum, to enliven the scene. Sometimes he
summons me to kiss his hand, and laughs very much at this. Enchanting
is that baby-laugh, all dimples and glitter,--so strangely arch and
innocent! Then I wash and dress him. That is his great time. He makes
it last as long as he can, insisting to dress and wash me the while,
kicking, throwing the water about, and full of all manner of tricks,
such as, I think, girls never dream of. Then comes his walk;--we have
beautiful walks here for him, protected by fine trees, always warm in
mid-winter. The bands are playing in the distance, and children of
all ages are moving about, and sitting with their nurses. His walk and
sleep give me about three hours in the middle of the day.

I feel so refreshed by his young life, and Ossoli diffuses such a
power and sweetness over every day, that I cannot