“You love Miss Goldsborough, of course, and would do anything to make her happy, I am sure,” said the Italian, in a persuasive voice, fixing his large, lustrous, melancholy eyes with mesmeric effect upon the sensitive child’s face.
“No, I do not love her so very much. She is so still and proud,” began the truthful child.
“That is because she is ill-used and unhappy, my dear,” said Vittorio, persuasively, keeping his beautiful, sorrowful eyes fixed upon the little girl.
“I am unhappy, too! I have lost my dear mother!” said the child.
“Have you, my darling? Then may the blessed Mother of Christ be your mother, and comfort you,” said Vittorio, plaintively.
“But that does not make me sullen! And although Miss Goldsborough will not let me love her much, I do think I would do anything to please her; and I do know I would do anything in the world to please you, so you wouldn’t look so very, very miserable!”
“Would you, my little angel? You are a little angel of goodness! Would you take a letter from me to Miss Goldsborough?”
“Oh, yes, sir, that I would!”
“And could you give it to her—secretly?”
“Oh, yes, sir, I know I could!”