All this being comfortably settled, Giudice and I went forth to pay our visit in Lucas Street. The whole of that street we found so utterly changed in appearance by a vigorous onset of painters, grainers, and decorators, that it was not easy to know the house we were in quest of. Even the numbers on the doors, which had been illegible, or very nearly so, had now been re-arranged and painted over again upon the fashionable and very sensible mode of marking odd numerals on one side, and even ones on the other. Finding myself in a difficulty, and the houses all alike as the central peas of a pod, I trusted to Judy’s delicate nose, and rang the bell of the door at which he halted. Then he drew back, and trembled, and crouched upon the pavement, to wait for my return. As I heard the tinkle, my heart began to flutter: who could tell what new phase of my life might begin with that little pull? After some delay, poor old Cora came, looking as weird and woebegone as ever--fierce would have been that look to any one but me. I knew that I held her by my magic gordit, like the slave of the lamp. After imploring in some mumbled words (which I interpreted only by knowledge of her desire) gracious leave to kiss that potent charm, she led me into the breakfast-parlour, where I found sweet Isola in a passionate flood of tears. At sight of me, her beautiful smile broke through them, and her quick deep sobs spent themselves in kisses. "Oh, I am so gug-gug-glad, my own dear Cla-Cla-Clara; and I won’t cuc-cuc-cry one bit more, the moment I can stop." She put her arms around me, and her head upon my breast, as if I had been, at the very least, her brother. "My pretty dear, what is it all about?" I had never seen her look so lovely as now, her violet eyes brimming with liquid brightness, the velvet of her cheeks deepened to rich carmine, and the only thing that sweet face ever wanted, the expression of earnest feeling, now radiant through the whole. "Why, dear, I ought not to tell you; but I must tell somebody, or my heart will break." Here she pressed her little hand on that pure unfissured casket, where sorrow was as yet an undreamed-of robber. "You know, dear, it’s all about papa and my darling Conny. The only trouble I ever have, but a very great one, big enough and too big for two little folk of my size. Half an hour ago, I went in suddenly to get a book upon the politico-economical science, the very one papa is lecturing about so beautifully; and I did not even know that Conny was in the house. There papa was, white as death with passion; and Conrad with his eyes like coals of sparkling fire; and what do you suppose my papa called his own son Conny?" "Don’t tell me, if it’s anything bad. I can’t bear it, Isola." "Oh, I knew you were fond of him, and I am so glad!" This she said in such an artless way--as if Conrad and I were two dolls which she meant to put in one doll’s house--that instead of colouring, I actually laughed.