were,
written so clearly, and containing such a particular account of his
doings, and, what Karin prized more, warm expressions of grateful
affection for the dear friends "at home," as he still called the golden
house, though it was plain that the once houseless little Italian had
now two homes.

Nono wrote that the artist's wife treated him as if he were her own
son, and was teaching him carefully everything that would help him to
understand all that was about him. Object lessons they seemed to be,
with wonderful Rome for the great "kindergarten." He was learning
Italian too, and that he thought charming. As for his work in the
studio, it was only a pleasure, excepting that he was impatient for the
time when he could make beautiful things himself. When he had walked
in the streets at first, he had thought all the boys might at least
have been his cousins, and some of them made him feel as if he were
looking in the glass. Now and then he would meet a man that he felt
sure must be his father, but he did not often dare to speak to such
strangers. He had hoped and believed he should find his father in
Italy, but now he was sure it would be harder to know him there than in
Sweden. He had almost given up thinking about it lately, he had so
much to do and so much to see, and everybody was so kind to him.

Karin did not feel that Nono was drifting away from her, though he
wrote so openly and affectionately of his new friends. His thankful
remembrance of all the love and care he had had at the cottage was
expressed in every letter, and a deeper gratitude for the kind
instruction that had taught him from his childhood to love his heavenly
Father, and to try to obey his holy laws.

Alma missed Nono, it was true, for she had really grown fond of the
little friendly boy while he had been an inmate at Ekero; but she had a
new deep content in the pleasure she was learning to find in the
society of her brother. Together they were struggling heavenward, and
were daily a help and joy to each other.

Alma was walking on the veranda one morning in early summer, when she
saw what she thought two tramps approaching. She had no liking for
such wanderers, and turned to go into the house. At that moment she
caught sight of the worn face of the older man, and stood still. He
looked so gentle, and yet so weary and weak, as he clung to the arm of
his younger companion. They were not dressed like Italians, nor like
any style of