wearisome, Brigitta's one eye has again wandered off to the man with the red waistcoat. Carlotta sees this, watching her out of her deep-set, glassy eyes. Speak Carlotta will, and Brigitta shall listen, she was determined.

"I could tell you things"—she lowers her voice and speaks into the other's ear—"things—horrors—about Casa Guinigi!"

Brigitta starts. "Gracious! You frighten me! What things?"

"Ah, things that would make your hair stand on end. It is I who say it," and Carlotta snaps her fingers and nods.

"You know things, Carlotta? You pretend to know what happens in Casa Guinigi? Nonsense! You are mad!"

"Am I?" retorts the other. "We shall see. Who wins boasts. I'm not so mad, anyhow, as the marchesa, who shuts up her palace on the festival, and offends St. Nicodemus and all the saints and martyrs," and Carlotta's eyes flash, and her white eyebrows twitch.

"However"—and again she lays her bony hand heavily on Brigitta's fat arm—"if you don't want to hear what I know about Casa Guinigi, I will not tell you." Carlotta shuts up her mouth and nods defiantly.

This was not at all what Brigitta desired. If there was any thing to be told, she would like to hear it.

"Come, come, Carlotta, don't be angry. You may know much more than I do; you are always in your shop, except on festivals. The door is open, and you can see into the street of San Simone, up and down. But speak low; for there are Lisa and Cassandra close behind, and they will hear. Tell me, Carlotta, what is it?"

Brigitta speaks very coaxingly.

"Yes," replies the old woman, "I can see both the Guinigi palaces from my door—both the palaces. If the marchesa knew—"

"Go on, go on!" says Brigitta, nudging her. She leans forward to listen. "Go on. People are coming out of the cathedral."

Carlotta raises her head and grins, showing the few black teeth left in her mouth. "Are they? Well, answer me. Who lives in the street there—the street of San Simone—as well as the marchesa? Who has a fine palace that the marchesa sold him, a palace on which he has spent—ah! so much, so much? Who keeps open house, and has a French cook, and fine furniture, and new clothes, and horses in his stable, and six carriages? Who?—who?" As old Carlotta puts these questions she sways her body to and fro, and raises her finger to her nose.

"Who is strong, and square, and fair, and smooth?" "Who goes in and out with a smile on his face? Who?—who?"

"Why, Nobili, of course—Count Nobili. We all know that," answered Brigitta, impatiently. "That's no news. But what has Nobili to do with the marchesa?"

"What has he to do with the marchesa? Listen, Madama Brigitta. I will tell you. Do you know that, of all gentlemen in Lucca, the marchesa hates Nobili?"

"Well, and what then?"

"She hates him because he is rich and spends his money freely, and because she—the Guinigi—lives in the same street and sees it. It turns sour upon her stomach, like milk in a thunder-storm. She hates him."

"Well, is that all?" interrupts Brigitta.

Carlotta puts up her chin close to Brigitta's face, and clasps her tightly by the shoulder with both her skinny hands. "That is not all. The marchesa has her own niece, who lives with her—a doll of a girl, with a white face—puff! not worth a feather to look at; only a cousin of the marchesa's husband; but, she's the only one left, all the same. They are so thin-blooded, the Guinigi, they have come to an end. The old woman never had a child; she would have starved it."

Carlotta lowers her voice, and speaks into Brigitta's ear. "Nobili loves the niece. The marchesa would have the carbineers out if she knew it."

"Oh!" breaks from Brigitta, under her breath. "This is fine! splendid!
Are you sure of this, Carlotta? quite sure?"

"As sure as that I like meat, and only get it on Sundays.—Sure?—I have seen it with my own eyes. Checco knows the granddaughter of the man who helps the cook—Nobili pays like a lord, as he is!—He spends his money, he does!—Nobili writes to the niece, and she answers. Listen. To-day, the marchesa shut up her palace and put a chain on the door. But chains can be unloosed, locks broken. Enrica (that's the niece) at daybreak comes out to the arched gate-way that opens from the street into the Moorish garden at the farther side of the palace—she comes out and talks to Nobili for half an hour, under cover of the ivy that hangs over the wall on that side. Teresa, the maid, was there too, but she stood behind. Nobili wore a long cloak that covered him all over; Enrica had a thick veil fastened round her head and face. They didn't see me, but I watched them from behind Pietro's house, at the corner of the street opposite. First of all, Enrica puts her head out of the gate-way. Teresa puts hers out next. Then Enrica waves her hand toward the palace opposite, a side-door opens piano, Nobili appears, and watches all round to see that no one is near—ha! ha! his young eyes didn't spy out my old ones though, for all that—Nobili appears, I say, then he puts his hand to his heart, and gives such a look across the street!—Ahi! it makes my old blood boil to see it. I was pretty once, and liked such looks.—You may think my eyes are dim, but I can see as far as another."

And the old hag chuckles spitefully, and winks at Brigitta, enjoying her surprise.

"Madre di Dio!" exclaims this one. "There will be fine work."

"Yes, truly, very fine work. The marchesa shall know it; all Lucca shall know it too—mark my words, all Lucca! Curses on the Guinigi root and branch! I will humble them! Curses on them!" mumbles Carlotta.

"And what did Nobili do?" asks Brigitta.

"Do?—Why, seeing no one, he came across and kissed Enrica's hand; I saw it. He made as if he would have knelt upon the stones, only she would not let him. Then they whispered for, as near as I can guess, half an hour—Teresa standing apart. There was the sound of a cart then coming along the street, and presto!—Enrica was within the garden in an instant, the gate was closed, and Nobili disappeared."

Any further talk is now cut short by the approach of Cassandra, a friend of Brigitta's. Cassandra is a servant in a neighboring eating-house, a tall, large-boned woman, a colored handkerchief tied over her head, and much tawdry jewelry about her hands and neck.

"What are you two chattering about?" asks Cassandra sharply. "It seems entertaining. What's the news? I get paid for news at my shop. Tell me directly."

"Lotta here was only relating to me all about her grandchild," answers Brigitta, with a whine.—Brigitta was rather in dread of Cassandra, whose temper was fierce, and who, being strong, knocked people down occasionally if they offended her.

"Lotta was telling me, too, that she wants fresh stores for her shop, but all her money is gone to the grandchild in the hospital, who is ill, very ill!" and Brigitta sighs and turns up the whites of her eyes.

"Yes, yes," joins in Carlotta, a dismal look upon her shriveled old face. "Yes—it is just that. All the money gone to the grandchild, the son of my Beppo—that's the soldier who is with the king's army.—Alas! all gone; my money, my son, and all."

Here Carlotta affects to groan and wring her hands despairingly.

The mass was now nearly over; many people were already leaving the cathedral; but the swell of the organs and the sweet tones of voices still burst forth from time to time. Festive masses are always long. It might not