A sweet sound came through the orange boughs, and floated to the ears of the parson, as he wound slowly up the gentle ascent,--so sweet, so silvery, he paused in delight--unaware, wretched man! that he was thereby conniving at Papistical errors.

Soft it came and sweet; softer and sweeter,--"Ave Maria!" Violante was chanting the evening hymn to the Virgin Mother.

The parson at last distinguished the sense of the words, and shook his head with the pious shake of an orthodox Protestant.
He broke from the spell resolutely, and walked on with a sturdy step.

Gaining the terrace, he found the little family seated under an awning,--Mrs.Riccabocca knitting; the signor with his arms folded on his breast: the book he had been reading a few moments before had fallen on the ground, and his dark eyes were soft and dreamy.

Violante had finished her hymn, and seated herself on the ground between the two, pillowing her head on her stepmother's lap, but with her hand resting on her father's knee, and her gaze fixed fondly on his face.
"Good-evening," said Mr.Dale.Violante stole up to him, and, pulling him so as to bring his ear nearer to her lip, whispered, "Talk to Papa, do,--and cheerfully; he is sad." She escaped from him as she said this, and appeared to busy herself with watering the flowers arranged on stands round the awning.