The Italian boy, of whom I have already spoken, exhibited an untiring devotion to his master which won my heart.
His name was Raffaelle Carotenuto, and he often sang to us in the evening, accompanying himself on the mandoline.

At nights, too, when John could not sleep, Raffaelle would read for hours till at last his master dozed off.

He was well educated, and though I could not understand the subject he read, I often sat by and listened, being charmed with his evident attachment to my brother and with the melodious intonation of a sweet voice.
My brother was nervous apparently in some respects, and would never be left alone even for a few minutes; but in the intervals while Raffaelle was with him I had ample opportunity to examine and appreciate the beauties of the Villa de Angelis.

It was built, as I have said, on some rocks jutting into the sea, just before coming to the Capo di Posilipo as you proceed from Naples.

The earlier foundations were, I believe, originally Roman, and upon them a modern villa had been constructed in the eighteenth century, and to this again John had made important additions in the past two years.