He hastened to the nearest restaurant and ordered luncheon for himself. And while it was being got ready he asked for writing materials and wrote a letter. Very soon he dispatched his luncheon, and then, with his prepared letter in his hand, he started once more for the convent. On his way thither he stopped at a confectioner’s and bought a quantity of French candy, with which he filled his pockets. When he got back before the convent walls he found, as he had expected, the day pupils returning to school for the afternoon session. They came in as they had gone out—singly, or in twos or threes, or in larger numbers. Vittorio stood under a tree, apparently engaged in reading a newspaper, but really in watching the countenances of the returning children. Nearly all had gone in, and Vittorio began to despair of the success of his plan. At length all seemed to have gone in, for not another one appeared, and the door was closed, and Vittorio quite despaired of the success of his plan. But, as he was turning away, with a most heartbroken expression of countenance, he met a beautiful little girl of about nine years of age, dressed in deep mourning, and carrying a satchel of books. He knew that she must be a day pupil of the convent school, and that she was behind time. This little girl, meeting the handsome, melancholy and most interesting young Italian, looked up in his face with that wistful expression of sympathy which is so often seen in the faces of children when they are contemplating the troubled brows of older people. Vittorio Corsoni knew in an instant that he had met the sort of little girl for whom he had patiently waited. He immediately addressed her: “My dear child, are you a pupil of that convent school?” “Yes, sir,” answered the tiny woman, gently, while her wistful face seemed to say, “Poor fellow! what can I do to help you?” “Do you know a young lady who boards there by the name of—Miss Alberta Goldsborough?” he inquired, in a low voice. “Oh, yes, sir,” she answered, quickly, while her speaking face expressed the thought, “Oh, this is the sweetheart she is hidden from!” For you may be sure, my readers, that there are very few secrets in this world; and the real reason why Miss Goldsborough had been sent to that convent school was whispered about among the older pupils, and this little girl had heard of it; and all her sympathies were with the lovers. “You love Miss Goldsborough, of course, and would do anything to make her happy, I am sure,” said the Italian, in a persuasive voice, fixing his large, lustrous, melancholy eyes with mesmeric effect upon the sensitive child’s face. “No, I do not love her so very much. She is so still and proud,” began the truthful child. “That is because she is ill-used and unhappy, my dear,” said Vittorio, persuasively, keeping his beautiful, sorrowful eyes fixed upon the little girl. “I am unhappy, too! I have lost my dear mother!” said the child.