It was one of Ireland’s greenest lanes that wound its way down to a rippling brook, in the rear of Friend Goodman’s house. And there, by a mound of rocks that dipped their mossy feet in the rivulet, Friend Goodman walked slowly, watching for his little daughter, who had been spending the day with some children in the neighbourhood. Presently, the small maiden came jumping along, with her bonnet thrown back, and the edges of her soft brown ringlets luminous in the rays of the setting sun. Those pretty curls were not Quakerly; but Nature, who pays no more attention to the regulations of Elders, than she does to the edicts of Bishops, would have it so. At the slightest breath of moisture, the silky hair rolled itself into spirals, and clustered round her pure white forehead, as if it loved the nestling-place. Jumping, likewise, was not a Quakerly proceeding. But little Alice, usually staid and demure, in imitation of those around her, had met with a new companion, whose temperament was more mercurial than her own, and she was yielding to its magnetic influence.
Camillo Campbell, a boy of six years, was the grandson of an Italian lady, who had married an Irish absentee, resident in Florence. Her descendants had lately come to Ireland, and taken possession of estates in the immediate neighbourhood of Friend Goodman, where little Camillo’s foreign complexion, lively temperament, and graceful broken language, rendered him an object of very great interest, especially among the children. He it was with whom little Alice was skipping through the green lane, bright and free as the wind and sunshine that played among her curls. As the sober father watched their innocent gambols, he felt his own pulses quicken, and his motions involuntarily became more rapid and elastic than usual. The little girl came nestling up to his side, and rubbed her head upon his arm, like a petted kitten. Camillo peeped roguishly from behind the mossy rocks, kissed his hand to her, and ran off, hopping first on one foot and then on the other.
“Dost thou like that little boy?” inquired Friend Goodman, as he stooped to kiss his darling.
“Yes, Camillo’s a pretty boy, I like him,” she replied. Then with a skip and a bound, which showed that the electric fluid was still leaping in her veins, she added, “He’s a funny boy, too: he swears you all the time.”
The simple child, being always accustomed to hear thee and thou, verily thought you was a profane word. Her father did what was very unusual with him: he laughed outright, as he replied, “What a strange boy is that!”
“He asked me to come down to the rock and play, to-morrow. May I go, after school?” she asked.
“We will see what mother says,” he replied. “But where didst thou meet Camillo?”
“He came to play with us in the lane, and Deborah and John and I went into his garden to see the birds. Oh, he has got such pretty birds! There’s a nice little meeting-house in the garden; and there’s a woman standing there with a baby. Camillo calls her my donny. He says we mustn’t play in there. Why not? Who is my donny?”
“The people of Italy, where Camillo used to live, call the Mother of Christ Madonna,” replied her father.
“And who is Christ?” she asked.