"You mustn't say a word to her about it. I have got to write a note, as it is, and ask her to wait for her money until winter. Dr. Prior, too." "Well, they'll do it; they'll do it in a minute, and be glad to," said Maso, still confident. "I am sure I don't know why," commented his mother, turning her head upon the pillow fretfully. "Why, mother, they'll do it because it's you. They think everything of you; everybody does," said the boy, adoringly. Violet Roscoe laughed. It took but little to cheer her. "If you don't brush your hair more carefully they won't think much of _you_," she answered, setting his collar straight. There was a knock at the door. "Letters," said Maso, returning. He brought her a large envelope, adorned with Italian superlatives of honor and closed with a red seal. "Always so civil," murmured Mrs. Roscoe, examining the decorated address with a pleased smile. Her letters came to a Pisan bank; the bankers re-enclosed them in this elaborate way, and sent them to her by their own gilt-buttoned messenger. There was only one letter to-day. She opened it, read the first page, turned the leaf, and then in her weakness she began to sob. Maso in great distress knelt beside her; he put his arm round her neck, and laid his cheek to hers; he did everything he could think of to comfort her. Mr. Tiber, who had been lying at her feet, walked up her back and gave an affectionate lick to her hair. "Mercy! the dog, too," she said, drying her eyes. "_Of course_ it was Reuben John," she explained, shaking up her pillow. Maso picked up the fallen letter. "Don't read it; burn it--horrid thing!" his mother commanded. He obeyed, striking a match and lighting the edge of the page. "Not only no money, but in its place a long, hateful, busybodying sermon," continued Mrs. Roscoe, indignantly. Maso came back from the hearth, and took up the envelope. "Mrs. Thomas R. Coe," he read aloud. "Is our name really Coe, mother?" "You know it is perfectly well." "Everybody says Roscoe." "_I_ didn't get it up; all I did was to call myself Mrs. Ross Coe, which is my name, isn't it? I hate Thomas. Then these English got hold of it and made it Ross-Coe and Roscoe. I grew tired of correcting them long ago." "Then in America I should be Thom-as Ross Coe--Thom-as R. Coe," pursued the boy, still scanning the envelope, and pronouncing the syllables slowly. He was more familiar with Italian names than with American. "No such luck. Tommy Coe you'd be now. And as you grew older, Tom Coe--like your father before you."