“You think he is so tall, and I--little? Nevare mind,” said the good little fellow, “we are of the same tallness in the heart. Nay, even me, I am a little the tallest there,” he added, laughing, “for I have nobody, and the good Oliver, he has his wife and little children, and many to love. He is my devotion,” added the Italian, warmly. “I have never had a friend before him. I am English too--though perhaps Mees Jos-lyn would not know it.” “Are you indeed? I beg your pardon,” said Lydia, “I thought you were an Italian. Mr. Oliver is very English. Do you know where--he comes from? and is it long since he came here?” “That no one can tell you so well as I,” said Paolo, delighted with the subject. “It was in--Ah, how well I remembare! I was upon the quay to watch for the great _vapore_--the steamboat I should say--and ecco! in one of those little boats that brought the travellers, this tall, big, beautiful young man. I step forward. I offer my help, for he could not speak a word, not one word. But no! he had a distrust of the foreigner. Mees Jos-lyn has perhaps remarked? It is the great fault of the English; they have always a distrust of the foreigners. He would not listen, nor permit himself to be assisted; but caught up his portmanteau and walked along. Wonderful! I stood and looked. Che bell’uomo! they all cried. I, I did not take any time to think--I am English, but I am Italian as well; from that moment I loved him, though he had a distrust of me. When I entered _table-d’hôte_ at the hotel where I always dined, there was he again; and then we became friends. We have quarrelled, oh yes, we have quarrelled--a hundred thousand times,” cried Paolo, “but we are always friends again. Mees Jos-lyn will pardon that I tell such a long tale. It is ten years.” “What are you saying to Miss Joscelyn, Paul-o, about ten years?” “I am telling, amico, how we became friends,” said Paolo, stretching himself to his full height by Harry’s side, raising himself on tip-toe. The other looked down on him with a kindness that was not without a touch of contempt. Harry was very faithful to Paolo, and proud of him in his way; but the almost feminine demonstrative affection of the little Italian was always a thing of which he was half ashamed. “Is it ten years?” he said. “But you might find some better subject to entertain Miss Joscelyn about.” “I asked him,” said Lydia. She looked at this stranger with very anxious, suspicious eyes. He was a stranger of course. She had seen him for the first time to-day. Still his name was one she knew; his face was one she knew; his very voice sounded familiar. A curious confusion and suspicion came over her. Strangely enough it never once occurred to her to think of her brother. “Let me take you to dinner,” he said.