"Have you never done anything else but
needlework?—never been out at service? "

"Yes, sir. For the last eight months I
have had a situation to wait on a lady at
Florence, and my sister (who is turned
eleven, sir, and can make herself very useful)
was allowed to help in the nursery,"

"How came you to leave this situation?"

"The lady and her family were going to
Rome, sir. They would have taken me with
them, but they could not take my sister. We
are alone in the world, and we never
have been parted from each other and never
shall be—so I was obliged to leave the
situation."

"And here you are back at Pisa—with
nothing to do, I suppose?"

"Nothing yet, sir. We only came back
yesterday."

"Only yesterday! You are a lucky girl,
let me tell you, to have met with me. I
suppose you have somebody in the town who can
speak to your character ? "

"The landlady of this house can, sir."

"And who is she, pray ?"

"Marta Angrisani, sir."

"What! the well-known sick-nurse? You
could not possibly have a better recommendation,
child. I remember her being employed
at the Melani Palace at the time of the
marquis's last attack of gout; but I never
knew that she kept a lodging-house."

"She and her daughter, sir, have owned
this house longer than I can recollect. My
sister and I have lived in it since I was quite
a little child, and I had hoped we might be
able to live here again. But the top room
we used to have, is taken, and the room to let
lower down is far more, I am afraid, than we
can afford."

"How much is it ?"

Nanina mentioned the weekly rent of the
room in fear and trembling. The steward
burst out laughing.

"Suppose I offered you money enough to
be able to take that room for a whole year at
once? " he said.

Nanina looked at him in speechless amazement.

"Suppose I offered you that? " continued
the steward. "And suppose I only asked
you in return to put on a fine dress and serve
refreshments in a beautiful room to the
company at the Marquis Melani's grand ball?
What should you say to that? "

Nanina said nothing. She drew back a
step or two, and looked more bewildered than
before.

"You must have heard of the ball," said
the steward pompously. "The poorest
people in Pisa have heard of it. It is the
talk of the whole city."

Still Nanina made no answer. To have
replied truthfully, she must have confessed
that " the talk of the whole city " had now no
interest for her. The last news from Pisa that
had appealed to her sympathies was the
news of the Countess d'Ascoli's death, and of
Fabio's departure to travel in foreign
countries. Since then, she had heard nothing more
of him. She was as ignorant of his return to
his native city as of all the reports connected
with the marquis's ball. Something in her
own heart — some feeling which she had
neither the desire nor the capacity to
analyse—had brought her back to Pisa and to
the old home which now connected itself
with her tenderest recollections. Believing
that Fabio was still absent, she felt that no
ill motive could now be attributed to her
return; and she had not been able to resist
the temptation of revisiting the scene that
had been associated with the first great happiness
as well as with the first great sorrow of
her life. Among all the poor people of Pisa, she
was perhaps the very last whose curiosity
could be awakened, or whose attention could
be attracted, by the rumour of gaieties at the
Melani Palace.

But she could not confess all this; she
could only listen with great humility and no
small surprise, while the steward, in compassion
for her ignorance, and with the hope of
tempting her into accepting his offered
engagement, described the arrangements of the
approaching festival, and dwelt fondly on the
magnificence of the Arcadian bowers, and
the beauty of the shepherdesses' tunics. As
soon as he had done, Nanina ventured on the
confession that she should feel rather nervous
in a grand dress that did not belong to her,
and that she doubted very much her own
capability of waiting properly on the great
people at the ball. The steward, however,
would hear of no objections, and called
peremptorily for Marta Angrisani to make the
necessary statement as to Nanina's character.
While this formality was being complied with
to the steward's perfect satisfaction, La
Biondella came in, unaccompanied on this
occasion by the usual companion of all her walks,
the learned poodle, Scarammuccia.

"This is Nanina's sister, sir," said the
good-natured sick-nurse, taking the first opportunity
of introducing La Biondella to the great
marquis's great man. " A very good,
industrious little girl; and very clever at plaiting
dinner-mats, in case his excellency should
ever want any. What have you done with
the dog, my dear ?"

"I couldn't get him past the pork-butcher's
three streets off," replied La Biondella. " He
would sit down and look at the sausages.  I
am more than half afraid he means to steal
some of them."

"A very pretty child," said the steward,
patting La Biondella on the cheek. "We ought
to have her at the ball. If his excellency
should want a Cupid, or a youthful nymph,
or anything small and light in that way, I
shall come back and let you know. In the
meantime, Nanina, consider yourself,
Shepherdess number Thirty, and come to the
housekeeper's room at the palace to try on