your dress to-morrow. Nonsense! don't talk
to me about being afraid and awkward. All
you're wanted to do is to look pretty; and
your glass must have told you, you could do
that long ago. Remember the rent of the
room, my dear; and don't stand in your light
and your sister's. Does the little girl like
sweetmeats? Of course, she does! Well, I
promise you a whole box of sugar-plums to
take home for her, if you will come and wait
at the ball."

"Oh, go to the ball, Nanina, go to the
ball! " cried La Biondella, clapping her
hands.

"Of course she will go to the ball," said
the nurse. "She would be mad to throw
away such an excellent chance."

Nanina looked perplexed. She hesitated a
little, then drew Marta Angrisani away into
a corner, and whispered this question to her:—

"Do you think there will be any priests at
the palace where the marquis lives? "

"Heavens, child, what a thing to ask!"
returned the nurse. " Priests at a masked
ball! You might as well expect to find
Turks performing high mass in the cathedral.
But supposing you did meet with, priests at
the palace, what then?"

"Nothing," said Nanina, constrainedly.
She turned pale, and walked away as she
spoke. Her great dread in returning to Pisa,
was the dread of meeting with Father Rocco
again. She had never forgotten her first
discovery at Florence, of his distrust of her.
The bare thought of seeing him any more,
after her faith in him had been shaken for
ever, made her feel faint and sick at heart.

"To-morrow, in the house-keeper's room,"
said the steward, putting on his hat, " you
will find your new dress all ready for you."

Nanina curtseyed, and ventured on no
more objections. The prospect of securing a
home for a whole year to come, among people
whom she knew, reconciled her—
influenced as she was, also, by Marta Angrisani's
advice, and by her sister's anxiety for the
promised present—to brave the trial of
appearing at the ball.

"What a comfort to have it all settled at
last," said the steward, as soon as he was out
again in the street. " We shall see what the
marquis says, now. If he doesn't apologise
for calling me a scoundrel the moment he sets
eyes on Number Thirty, he is the most
ungrateful nobleman that ever existed.

Arriving in front of the palace, the steward
found workmen engaged in planning the
external decorations and illuminations for
the night of the ball. A little crowd had
already assembled to see the ladders raised,
and the scaffoldings put up. He observed
among them, standing near the outskirts of
the throng, a lady who attracted his attention
(he was an ardent admirer of the fair
sex), by the beauty and symmetry of her
figure. While he lingered for a moment to
look at her, a shaggy poodle dog (licking his
chops, as if he had just had something to eat),
trotted by, stopped suddenly close to the
lady, sniffed suspiciously for an instant, and
then began to growl at her without the slightest
apparent provocation. The steward
advancing politely with his stick to drive the
dog away, saw the lady start, and heard her
exclaim to herself, amazedly:—

"You here, you beast! Can Nanina have
come back to Pisa? "

This last exclamation gave the steward, as
a gallant man, an excuse for speaking to the
elegant stranger.

"Excuse me, madam," he said; "but I
heard you mention the name of Nanina. May
I ask whether you mean a pretty little workgirl,
who lives near the Campo Santo?"

"The same," said the lady, looking very
much surprised and interested immediately.

"It may be a gratification to you, madam,
to know that she has just returned to Pisa,"
continued the steward politely; " and,
moreover, that she is in a fair way to rise in the
world. I have just engaged her to wait at
the marquis's grand ball, and I need hardly
say, under those circumstances, that if she
plays her cards properly, her fortune is made."

The lady bowed, looked at her informant
very intently and thoughtfully for a moment,
then suddenly walked away without uttering
a word.

'' A curious woman," thought the steward,
entering the palace. " I must ask Number
Thirty about her to-morrow."

                  CHAPTER VIII.

THE death of Maddalena d'Ascoli produced
a complete change in the lives of her father
and her uncle. After the first shock of the
bereavement was over, Luca Lomi had
declared that it would be impossible for him to
work in his studio again—for some time to
come, at least—after the death of the beloved
daughter, with whom every corner of it was
now so sadly and closely associated. He
accordingly accepted an engagement to assist
in restoring several newly-discovered works
of ancient sculpture at Naples; and set forth
for that city, leaving the care of his
workrooms at Pisa entirely to his brother.

On the master-sculptor's departure, Father
Rocco caused the statues and busts to be
carefully enveloped in linen cloths, locked the
studio doors, and, to the astonishment of all
who knew of his former industry and dexterity
as a sculptor, never approached the place
again. His clerical duties he performed with
the same assiduity as ever; but he went out
less than had been his custom, hitherto, to the
houses of his friends. His most regular visits
were to the Ascoli Palace, to enquire at the
porter's lodge after the health of Maddalena's
child, who was always reported to be thriving
admirably under the care of the best nurses
that could be found in Pisa. As for any
communications with his polite little friend
from Florence, they had ceased months ago.