nto the shop, her governess following with a
patient smile. What harm could result from her pupil's chatting with
the old shop-keeper clad in shabby black, with a rusty satin stock
about his neck, and a face tinged yellow by age, as were those of the
dilapidated marble busts ranged above his head in the obscurity of the
shop? Ay, what harm indeed, mademoiselle? If one could read futurity!

The old man, without surprise at the advent of a young girl in blue
velvet, took down the image, and explained to her its history in his
slow, musical, Roman tongue. Even mademoiselle lent an ear of
unwilling fascination to the tale. The little wooden figure, a foot in
height, was San Donato. Behold, signorina mia, the beauty of the face,
the robes tinted a soft rose, with ample gold margin, the aureole and
palm of martyrdom in the hand. In the great Demidoff villa of San
Donato a patron saint was placed in a niche above the portal of
certain suites of apartments, as guardian spirit, by the builder. That
brought good luck. The Russian prince is dead, signorina, and the
nephew heir cast out the saints with quantities of other valuables for
sale. For this reason poor San Donato, patron of the whole place, is
now perched on a shelf in a little shop at Rome.

Cecilia listened with sparkling eyes, and her head a trifle on one
side.

"San Donato shall be my saint," she cried, extending her hands. "Two
hundred francs? I have more in my purse. You need not frown,
mademoiselle; it is my pocket-money from my papa in America, to spend
as I choose. Good-by, signor; I will come to see you again some time."

The old shop-keeper looked after her a moment, then drew from under a
chair a repast of dry bread and an onion, interrupted by the
purchaser.

"After all, San Donato might have brought me luck had I kept him
longer," he muttered, draining the little flask of wine as he sat on
the door-step, and musing with that curious mixture of avarice and
regret at losing a treasure peculiar to the connoisseur.

San Donato was carried along the street by his happy possessor
somewhat in the fashion of a new doll. Mademoiselle hid his light
under a bushel by laying a fold of shawl over his head and aureole.
Cecilia's fancy was captivated by his history even more than by his
pensive face and gorgeous robes. San Donato, deposed from his lofty
estate in the palace of a Russian prince, should preside as guardian
spirit of her home. The image was invested wi