more. But Carlo had been unfortunate—had
been obliged to support entirely a sickly sister,
and pay the debts of a worthless brother. Both
these had now been dead some years, however,
and Carlo was once again beginning to hope that
he should achieve the establishment of a shop
and business of his own, and fulfil the almost
equally long-deferred hope of making Laura
Vanni his wife. It was quite understood
between them long ago that the hope was mutual;
and their talk, as arm in arm they followed the
two old men along the path by the bank of the
Arno, was accordingly more of material interests,
and less of the pleasant nonsense of love-making,
than might have been the case some eight or ten
years before. For Laura, I am shocked to say.
had reached her seven-and-twentieth year.

When they reached the favourite meadow
selected by the Florentines for the annual
celebration of their "merenda" festival, the ground
was almost entirely occupied by parties of four
or five, or sometimes ten or twelve, covering
with their clean white cloths, pitched in most
unexclusive neighbourhood to each other, nearly
the whole turf. The porter hired for the
occasion, who had been sent on with the materials
of our friends' "merenda," had selected for them
what he deemed a desirable spot. But the old
cavaliere was not so easily contented. One place
was exposed to the wind from the hills, another
would be in the full sun in half an hour; a third
did not command a view of the "palazzo vechio"
tower; and he had eaten his "merenda" in sight
of that every Ascension-day for the last ten
years. His old friend the while took no part in
his search for a spot to suit him, but seemed,
with his strange eager look, intently occupied in
counting the numbers of the different parties on
the ground around—counting the men, counting
the women (for almost every knot was composed
of family parties)—counting everything he could
see, and all with an appearance of the strangest
interest

At last, old Niccolo—"II Cavaliere," as his
friend Vanni never failed to call him—found a
spot to his liking; and the little party seated
themselves on the grass, and made the necessary
preparations for their feast. It cannot be said
that the cavaliere's choice of a locality was a bad
one. It was close under the thick tall hedge
that forms the boundary of the meadow furthest
from the city. The river was thus on their left;
the meadow crowded with the holiday-makers,
and the more or less pretentious and luxurious
preparations for eating and drinking, with the
towers and domes of the city in the distance, in
front of them; and the thick woods of the Cascine,
and above and beyond these the hill of Fiesole,
with its tower and its villas, to the right.

Laura drew forth from their store a clean
white cloth, and four very coarse, but nicely
washed, napkins; while the cavaliere was
ascertaining that the flasks of wine had
travelled safely in the basket made expressly for
the purpose of carrying a couple of Florentine
flasks, and consisting of two circular receptacles
some nine inches in diameter, and as much in
depth, joined together at one point of their
circumference, and surmounted by a semi-
circular handle. Such a contrivance is needed
for moving the fragile egg-shell-like flasks, which
enter so largely into Tuscan domestic use. Flasks
for wine, flasks for oil, flasks for milk, flasks for
medicine, flasks for water. The legal Florence
flask contains seven pounds' weight of wine, and is
equal to nearly three ordinary bottles. But the
glass is of the very thinnest; and even the
baskets described above would fail in securing
their large bulging sides and long slender necks
from frequent breakage, were they not invariably
covered with a rush-work coat as high as the
shoulder. The neck, which ends without any
rim, and looks just as if it had been irregularly
broken off, is so slender, that corking it in our
fashion is out of the question. The Florentine,
therefore, when he has filled his wine-flask, pours
into the narrow neck a little drop of olive oil,
which, resting on the wine to the thickness of
about half an inch, effectually and hermetically
closes the aperture. A wisp of straw, or, oftener
still, a vine-leaf, loosely placed in the mouth of the
opening, serves to keep out flies, dust, and such
matters; and the flasks, which of course remain
always upright on their rush-plaited bottoms, may
stay thus for years. When wanted, a morsel of
wool or cotton thrust into the neck of the flask
readily absorbs the oil, which is thus removed;
or, without any such contrivance, a practised
Florentine hand will toss the oil out with a jerk,
without spilling a drop of the wine.

"There!" said the cavaliere,"those ought to
be a couple of flasks of as good Pomino as you
would wish to drink. I went to the bishop's
cellar for them myself yesterday."

"Red wine—that gives me the number 33. I
wanted my third number!" muttered old Vanni;
"a very remarkable combination."

"Does all the Pomino vineyard belong to the
Bishop of Fiesole?" asked Carlo

"All," replied Signor Sestini "but the worst
of it is, that the bishop has other farms besides,
on which he makes a very inferior wine; and his
lordship is just as apt to mix his flasks, and
cheat his customers, as any wine-shop-keeper in
Florence."

"Bishop is number 32!" cried Vanni; "very
curious indeed."

Laura had by this time spread the cloth, and
produced a long loaf of brownish bread, two feet
or near it in length, by four inches in width, and
three in height; a quantity of "salame," or
Bologna sausage, uncooked thinly sliced, and
wrapped in abundance of fresh vine-leaves; some
salad; a quarter of roast lamb—the grand dish
of the repast—about as large as a good-sized
quarter of rabbit; and some apples.

The fat little cavaliere and ex-clerk fell to at
once; and the young people followed his
example. But old Laudadio's head was still
running meditatively on his numbers.