THE LAST DAY AT THE VILLA.

9

The next day was to be his last in the dear old place, as Mr. Freeman, the gentleman under whose care he was to be placed until his quitting Italy, was to arrive on the morrow.

Paul rose at six, and throwing up the window of his bed-room before he had finished dressing, leaned upon the marble sill, and gazed fixedly upon each object in the splendid landscape before him, as if he were trying to stamp it indelibly upon his memory.

"Ah!" thought he, "there was a time when all the beautiful things I see before me had almost ceased to give me pleasure. When Charles Audley, who spent last summer with us, talked of them with such delight, and never seemed tired of admiring them, I used to smile at his warmth, and was impertinent enough to think him foolish for his admiration. But now, I don't know how it is, things have grown more lovely in my sight, and many that I thought unattractive seem to have become dear to me. Perhaps it is the thought that I am going to leave them so soon; and who knows if for ever? Often and often have I heard my poor mother say that we never feel how much we liked a thing, we never know how much we loved a person, until they are taken from us. Have I not found out the truth of her words in losing her and my dear father? And now I am beginning to discover that she was right, too, about things; for certainly I never seemed to think this house, these grounds, and yonder beautiful prospect, so delightful as they appear to me this fine spring morning, when I am

going, after a few hours, to bid them a long good-bye!"

Reflections of this kind chased each other rapidly through his brain; and so expressive were his features, that if any one had been near, and could have watched him unobserved, he might have read what was passing in his mind by the workings of his face and eyes. The look of earnest attention was succeeded by a smile; the smile was followed by the tear, just as sunlight and shadow pursue each other across a plain upon a summer's day when clouds are in the sky.

Having finished dressing, and eaten his solitary breakfast, he whistled Nip (his spaniel) to his side, and opened the iron gates of the garden which led on to the road.

Giannetti, the old gardener, was just coming in. "So, Signor Pavolino, you leave us to-day, eh ?" "Yes, Giannetti, the English gentleman is expected at five to dinner, and I am to go with him to sleep at his hotel in the city this evening; and we start early to-morrow morning."

"I'll warrant," said the old man, with a very significant sniff and a sudden weakness in his eyes, which made them water a little, "I'll warrant that you are more delighted to go than we are at your going; but it's natural enough; young people like a change, and they soon forget old friends when there are plenty of new ones round them."

And the old man sighed.

"Young people may like a change, Giannetti mio, and no doubt they do," replied Paul; "and I suppose

THE OLD GARDENER.

11

I am not very different to other young people; but if you think, my good Giannetti, that I shall so easily forget those who have been kind to me" (and here Paul laid his hand upon the old man's shoulder), "believe me, you are much mistaken. Now, I was afraid it would be the other way, and that there was a chance of your forgetting me, so, to make you recall me sometimes to your remembrance, I went last week to Florence to get you a chain to your watch, so that whenever you pull that old friend out of your pocket, you may not forget your young one."

And without waiting for Giannetti's reply-for the old man was too surprised and moved to answer at once-Paul, followed by Nip, stepped out upon the dusty road, and began ascending the mountain.

Re

Giannetti remained a minute or so in the same position, with the box which Paul had put into his hands still closed and his mouth wide open, staring with dim eyes at the cancello, or iron gate, which had shut of itself behind his young master. covering himself, he strode to the gate, turned the handle, and, looking out, watched the retreating figure of Paul as, with straw hat in hand, the sun shining upon his glossy hair, he toiled up the road under the hot sun.

"Un buon cuore!" "A kind heart!" said the old gardener, after he had re-closed the gate and returned into the grounds. "Just like his father, open-handed; and with his sainted mother's eyes. I'd lay a wager, now-and I'm sure I should win it too-that I guess where he is going to. He's going

up to the old town, and will pay a visit to a casuccia, a poor little place not far from the church, and there will be smiles when he goes in, and there will be tears when he comes out! Ah! well-a-day! But let us see this beautiful chain-for I know it will be beautiful-a great deal too good for a poor old soul like me."

Thus speaking he opened the box, and drew out a bright silver chain, which looked all the more brilliant from contrast with his brown, horny hands.

"Per San Giovanni!" exclaimed the gardener, as he lifted his old straw hat from his head; "it is wonderful!"

While Giannetti was thus surveying and admiring his present, Paul was making his way along the road, stopping now and then to take breath and look at the lovely valley of the Arno, which appeared to grow beneath his feet with every fresh elevation gained.

He was so well known in that neighbourhood, that he had to return the salutation of almost every person he met. Fortunately, he thought, the sun was so hot, and the hour so unusual for loitering, that he met but few people, as in his present temper his heart was too full to admit anything but sorrowful reflections.

Having passed all the villas, which lay thickly up the mountain, he reached at last a roughly-paved causeway that extends to the crest of the hill, and in a few more minutes he arrived at the top, where some straggling houses and an old church constitute the city of Fiesole.

THE CITY OF FIESOLE.

13

There are few things left now to tell the ordinary observer that this same Fiesole was once an extensive city, the inhabitants of which descended into the valley and laid the foundation of Florence, the Queen of Tuscany. Those who search deeper will discover traces of ancient grandeur and strength, but they do not appear upon the surface. The incurious visitor would merely remark that the houses look very old, and wear an appearance of unusual solidity; but he would be far from suspecting the important part which the former residents of those crumbling habitations played in Tuscan history.

Our friend Paul was not so uninstructed. Naturally of an inquiring mind, he had had for his tutor in Italian and history a very worthy priest, a certain Dom Marini, attached to the cathedral church of Fiesole; and often had he taken his historical lesson upon the very spot where some important event had occurred. Eagerly also had he listened to his enlightened instructor while he pointed out the position defended by some gallant fellows during the terrible civil wars which desolated Tuscany; and earnestly treasured his words when, pointing to the ancient city as an example, and after dwelling upon the extent and influence and numerous population which it once boasted, he taught that all human institutions must one day fall; and that, like man himself, they have their childhood and youth, their prime and their old age, until the day comes when this world sees them no more, and nothing but their deeds for good or evil is left to tell that they ever existed.