“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. “He was a holy man, who lived a great many years ago. I read to thee one day about his taking little children in his arms and blessing them.” “I guess he loved little children almost as well as thou, dear father,” said Alice. “But what do they put his mother in that little meeting-house for?” Not deeming it wise to puzzle her busy little brain with theological explanations, Friend Goodman called her attention to a small dog, whose curly white hair soon displaced the Madonna, and even Camillo, in her thoughts. But the new neighbour, and the conservatory peopled with birds, and the little chapel in the garden, made a strong impression on her mind. She was always talking of them, and in after years they remained by far the most vivid picture in the gallery of childish recollections. Nearly every day, she and Camillo met at the mossy rock, where they planted flowers in blossom, and buried flies in clover-leaves, and launched little boats on the stream. When they strolled toward the conservatory, the old gardener was always glad to admit them. Flowering shrubs and gaudy parrots, so bright in the warm sunshine, formed such a cheerful contrast to her own unadorned home, that little Alice was never weary with gazing and wondering. But from all the brilliant things, she chose two Java sparrows for her especial favorites. The old gardener told her they were Quaker birds, because their feathers were all of such a soft, quiet color. Bright little Camillo caught up the idea, and said, “I know what for you so much do like them: Quaker lady-birds they be.”