“No,” he said, “I had little business then: but now--have I not new objects of thought and provisions to make----” “Oh, Signor Conte, if I am going to be such a burden on you----” “Nay, not a burden. You do me a wrong, Sophy. If I can but provide what will make you happy----” “Oh, you foolish old thing; did you think I meant it?” cried Sophy, looking up in his face, with the pretty affectation which love thinks adorable, but which chill eyes of bystanders see with less complacence. The Italian shrank for a moment from the caressing gesture of the two clasped hands which she laid upon his arm. Then he took courage, and stooping kissed the hands. “If I can but make you happy, poor child,” he said, with a suppressed sob in his voice. Mrs. Norton at this moment called the curate’s attention, and led him to the other end of the room to show him something. She was always watchful to “let them have a little time by themselves.” “Forgive me,” she whispered, “but, of course, they have little things to say to each other,” and the poor little lady cast furtive glances over the curate’s shoulder to see if the lovers’ interview grew more familiar. But Pandolfini very gently had freed himself from Sophy’s hand. He rose and stood before her, talking low, but not in a tone which augured any special confidence. Snodgrass thought that the very sound of it was enough to break any one’s heart. It was like the tender pitying tone in which bad news is broken to a child. Why was he so sorry for her, so sadly kind and gentle? Her little follies did not offend him, as they might have done a more warm lover. He was indulgent to everything--kind, with a melancholy appeal to her forgiveness in everything he said. The curate perhaps was proud of himself for his penetration. He had never so divined any one before. “You see they are not just like common lovers,” said poor little Mrs. Norton, who felt that she had to put the best face upon it, and now wreathed her face in smiles to conceal the anxiety in her mind. “He is so much older than she--and more experienced--and so clever. But you can’t think how he appreciates my Sophy’s sweetness. He quite worships her. When he talks to her in that voice it brings the tears to my eyes. It is so tender!” cried the anxious woman, looking for confirmation in the curate’s face. “Yes, it sounds very--melancholy,” said young Snodgrass, who, notwithstanding the new insight in his eyes, and the ache of sympathy in his heart, could not help being a little commonplace in speech. “Melancholy! It is tender--that is what it is! He thinks everything is angelical that she does or says. And nobody who does not know her as we do can tell what a darling my Sophy is,” said Mrs. Norton, with tears in her eyes.