I looked up inquiringly; there was that in her eye which might be the light of an unfallen tear.
"But I don't know who you mean."
"I am glad not. How silly I am! Oh, madre mia! this hot weather softens the brain, I do believe,—I should never have done it in the winter. And all this time I have been wondering what is that basket upon which Josephine seems to have set her whole soul."
"It is for you," said Josephine.
"Oh," I exclaimed, "how careless I am! Yes, but I do not know who it comes from. Franz brought it."
"Young Delemann? Oh, thank him, please! I know very well. Here, then, piccola, carina! you shall have to open it. Where are the ivory scissors?"
"Oh, how exquisite!" I cried; for I knew she meant those tiny fingers.
"Exquisite, is it? It is again from the Chevalier."
"Did he say so? I thought it like him; but you are so like him."
"I well, I believe you are right,—there is a kind of likeness."