custom of writing a portrait, much as I should desire my readers to become familiar with the countenance and form of the little girl who suddenly appeared before me. Indeed, though she is often recalled to my own memory as a vision of something more seraph-like than any other form I have ever seen, I do not think I could enter into a distinct description of each childish lineament; the colour of her large soft eyes, I well remember was of that deep violet so uncommon everywhere; but more espe cially so among the dark-eyed inhabitants of Italy. The hair was soft dark brown and hung in thick wavy masses over the head and face, the tint of the latter being of a peculiarly delicate fairness which made more conspicuous the decided lines of the brows, and the long drooping eyelashes.

The child made a timid attempt to approach me, and offer a small bunch of flowers, with the usual greeting of the children of these mountains, "Take, please;" English words which they have adopted, as a compliment to the most numerous visitors of the place, and a means which they generally find successful in selling their pretty and tastefully arranged bouquets. She had advanced to a point where the sunbeams shone with all their gladness, and in their light the little round-limbed child looked the very embodiment of all that was beautiful, bright and fresh in that lovely summer morning. I gazed almost with wonder at her beauty; I had never but once before, and that was in a picture, seen an expression so soft or angelic. My heart leaped towards the little one with an impulse which such an appearance in a child could hardly fail to inspire. And I think I almost gave utterance to my surprise, as I stretched forth my hands to draw her towards me. The movement startled her, and perceiving that she was inclined to retreat, I spoke, saying that I wished to have her flowers, and to give her a pretty silver coin instead of them. The temptation was not resisted and after a few shy looks, and coy movements, the beautiful child was soon at my side, looking sweetly up into my face, and answering my questions in her own sweet native tongue, which suited well with the soft refinement of her appearance. To inquire her name

:

was of course one of my

first questions.

"Violante,"

was the reply.

"And where do you live ?"

"In the first cottage on that hill, lady," pointing to the one just beyond us.

"And is your mother there ?" I said; for I had already begun to speculate on the parents of such a child.

"No, lady; Gigi takes cares of us-my brother Gigi— father is dead: he was drowned in the floods; and mother lives down at Casa Rossi.”

"Casa Rossi !" I said; “no, no, little one, mother does not live there; that is where I live."

"Yes, lady," replied the little one, "I know that, you live at Casa Rossi, and mother lives with you; she is your servant."

I then saw at once that this beautiful little being was part of the family of a poor woman of the country, who had been recommended to us as an assistant servant. Her husband, a respectable vintager, had been drowned during the winter, in a brave attempt to rescue a poor old man who had fallen over one of the bridges into the river. The floods so prevalent at that season were at a great height, and the current being too strong even for the strong arm of the young man to contend with, both were carried swiftly out of sight, and never seen again in life. The only means of support left to the poor young widow for herself and children, was her distaff and knitting, in the winter, and what money she could earn in summer by her services to the visitors at the Baths. We were glad to take her into our service under such circumstances, and the recollection now clearly flashed upon me, how much I had been struck with the beauty of the purely Italian face, and the almost classic dignity of the figure of our mountain servant; but I had not yet spoken much to her, and she, with the characteristic diffidence of the Lucchese peasantry, had withdrawn from notice.

I had frequently seen her brother Gigi, or Luigi, mentioned by Violante. He was a fine youthful specimen of his race; tall, for his age, which was ten, with a wellproportioned figure, and a noble head of clustering black

hair, a pale, thoughtful, but vigorous countenance, with deep-set eyes, as dark as night. He was a gentle and persevering nurse to the baby, the "Bimbo," whom he used constantly to bring to see his mother; but having seen only these, I had not known that there was a little girl,-though she, it appeared, had seen me and so it happened that I had never heard of Violante. I now resolved to interest myself more in the little family, and to appropriate the sweet little girl as pet and favourite during the remainder of our stay at Lucca.

I told her how pleased I was to find that we were not strangers, and I said I would take her home to breakfast with me, if she liked to come, at which she was highly delighted, and seemed to relish with childish glee the drollery of surprising her mother. Nothing draws a child from its awe and distance so much as calling forth its natural love of mirth. In her delighted anticipation of how she would hide herself, and again, how she would suddenly spring forth, the dear little child laughed aloud, and I, hardly less amused and pleased, laughed too and then we settled into quiet talk,-the little one sitting close beside me, and gazing fully into my face, with an expression so spiritual, and yet so infantine, that I hardly knew of which character to form my conversation with her; so, trying a combination of both, I talked of the flowers, of the trees, and of the sunshine.

I asked Violante if she knew who made the pretty world? She timidly gave me the right answer, fixing her soft eyes on the clear azure above us; and when I spoke of our Blessed SAVIOUR, she rose and curtseyed low at the name: but the dear child's stock of knowledge on any subject was small. Her infantine mind was full of simple love of the beautiful things which lay before her eyes, and of these it was very sweet to hear her talk; and so the time passed quickly away, until the return of my companions. They came, laden with the riches of the hills. Heaths, which for beauty of colour and form might claim a place at Chiswick, and roses of the richest hues and most delicate fragrance. The bright scarlet honeysuckle, so rare in our colder climate, with branches of oleander, were held out for my admiration, with many an

expression of regret that I had missed the pleasure of collecting similar treasures for myself. I glanced, indeed, with admiration at the bright and fragrant blossoms; but as I drew towards them my Violante, looking, as she did, the personification of a pale blushing rosebud, sinking into the depths of its mossy leaves, I felt that I, too, had met with a flower far more beautiful than any of theirs.

It was well that the little one's ignorance of English allowed our admiration to be expressed without constraint in her presence; and yet hers was not an appearance calculated to call forth loud and boisterous encomiums. There was an all-pervading gentleness in her beauty, that impressed one with a feeling akin to reverence. I had felt it so myself, and such I also found the effect produced on my companions to be.

One among them, who had an artist's eye and hand, remarked that there was an expression in the face that strongly reminded him of Murillo's glorious idea of the Divine Child, as pourtrayed in the well-known picture in our own National Gallery. The same resemblance had forcibly struck me; and as the child at that moment stood amongst us all, with a hand held by a stooping figure on either side of her, her large eyes raised trustingly to my face, and her well-moulded childish form, so erect in its scanty but graceful drapery, the favourite painting was present to us all. But time was advancing, and the sun gaining power; so we set forth homewards. There was no difficulty in persuading Violante to accompany us; the pleasure of doing so seemed to inspire her with activity and merriment. She scrambled and ran lightly down the hills, arriving at the foot of the path long before we had completed our winding journey. And then she would await us with such looks of mingled happiness and bashfulness, that our comments on her loveliness would break out afresh.

It so happened that Louisa (for such was the name of Violante's mother,) opened the door to us on our return home. The unexpected appearance of her child, startled her into a scream of delight, and as she folded the little one in her arms, with every expression of endearment, we could not but perceive how precious she was to her

mother's heart. She quickly, however, put her down, and turning to myself, with a low and graceful curtsey, she poured forth her thanks in expressions so fervent, that a translation of them might, to English ears, seem fulsome, but those who are at all acquainted with the character of the Tuscans, must have discovered that their sincerity is quite equal to their warmth of expression, and that their ardour is more valuable, from its not being habitual. Their general manner is reserved, comprising all that the French so delicately express in their word reticence; but when a kindred spark falls on the slumbering fire of their nature, it bursts forth with a reality in its warmth, which none but the cold at heart can witness unmoved.

As soon as this little excitement had subsided amongst us, we told Louisa that we were going to make Violante our pet; that she should come to us every day to learn to read and write, and that one of our party intended to take her likeness. The poor woman appeared to be overwhelmed with gratitude, and the sweet child evinced her innocent delight, by creeping closely to my side, and repeatedly kissing my shawl. She preferred, however, to breakfast with her mother, rather than enter the saloon at once with us; so, with an injunction to Louisa not to keep her long away from us, we parted.

The anticipation of pleasant occupation is always agreeable, or ought to be so, but more especially after the desultory mode of life consequent on a prolonged series of journeyings through strange places, the charm of which is certainly intense for a time, but when a certain period is exceeded, our energies begin to assert their rights, and conscience whispers that a lack of daily duties is not quite so agreeable even as we expected. We miss the innumerable interests, and even the anxieties, of a fixed home, and we see how wisely an Almighty Providence has placed them around us, to draw us from the too-absorbing centre, self. It was, therefore, with greatly increased satisfaction, that I chatted with my companions over the events of the morning excursion, as we sat together at breakfast with sharpened appetites, in a room fragrant with the perfume of the spoils of the mountains. I proposed writing to Leghorn for some elementary school books; and we each projected some little plan, not only for Violante's benefit,