e a spice-tree. He's a good-looking fellow;
the great ladies like him." This was said with a knock-me-down air by
Cassandra. "He dines at our place every day. It's a pleasure to see
his black curls and smell his scented handkerchief."

A cluster of listeners had now gathered round Cassandra, who,
conscious of an audience, thought it worth her while to hold forth.
Shaking out the folds of her gown, she leaned her back against the
wall, and pointed with a finger on which were some trumpery rings.
Cassandra knew everybody, and was determined to make those about her
aware of it. "That's young Count Orsetti and his mamma; they give a
grand ball to-night." (Cassandra is standing on tiptoe now, the better
to observe those who pass.) "There she goes to her carriage. Ahi! how
grand! The coachman and the valet with gold-lace and silk stockings.
I would fast for a week to ride once in such a carriage. Oh! I would
give any thing to splash the mud in people's faces. She's a fine
woman--the Orsetti. Observe her light hair. Madonna mia! What a
train of silk! Twelve shillings a yard--not a penny less. She's got a
cavaliere still.--He! he! a cavaliere!"

Carlotta grins, and winks her wicked old eyes. "She wants to marry
her son to Teresa Ottolini. He's a poor silly little fellow; but
rich--very rich."

"Who's that fat man in a brown coat?" asks Brigitta. "He's like a
maggot in a fresh nut!"

"That's my master--a fine-made man," answers Cassandra, frowning and
pinching in her lips, with an affronted air, "Take care what you say
about my master, Brigitta; I shall allow no observations."

Brigitta turns aside, puts her tongue in her cheek, and glances
maliciously at Carlotta, who nods.

"How do you know how your master is made, Cassandra mia?" asks
Brigitta, looking round, with a short laugh.

"Because I have eyes in my head," replies Cassandra, defiantly. "My
master, the padrone of the Pelican Hotel, is not a man one sees every
day in the week!"

A tall priest now appears from within the church, coming down the
nave, in company with a rosy-faced old gentleman, who, although using
a stick, walks briskly and firmly. He has a calm and pleasant face,
and his hair, which lies in neat little curls upon his forehead, is
as white as snow. One moment the rosy old gentleman talks eagerly
with the priest; the next he sinks upon his knees on the pavement,
and murmurs prayers at a side altar. He does this so abruptly that
the tall priest st