child or man, and as Innocent did not love Niccolo or any one else the separation from her was less hard than it might otherwise have been. Nevertheless there were tears in his eyes, and his heart was softened and melting when he arranged her supper for her, and went to the cold window to call her to her solitary meal. He touched her shoulder caressingly with his hand. “Santissima Madonna!” cried Niccolo, “you will die of cold, my poor young lady; you have nothing but this thin dress, which cannot keep you warm. Where in the name of all the saints is your cloak?” “I have put it away. It is ugly; it is not fit to wear,” cried Innocent. “It is a thing of the theatre. Why did you let me wear it?” and she put off his hand gently enough, but coldly, and continued her watch. “A thing of the theatre!” cried Niccolo, indignant, “when I bought it myself at the sale of the pittore Inglese, who died over the way; and you looked like a princess when you put it on, and warm as a bird in a nest. But I know who it is that turns you against your old dresses, and your old way of living, and your poor old Niccolo. It is the cousin. I hope he will be to you all we have been, Signorina. But in the meantime my young lady is served, and if she does not eat, the maccaroni will be cold. Cold maccaroni is good for no one. The cousin will not come to-night.” “You do not know,” said Innocent, turning a momentary look upon him, which was half a defiance and half a question. “But I do know,” said Niccolo; “he went to the house of the English doctor half an hour ago, and bid me tell the Signorina to be prepared at ten to-morrow. Come, then, to the maccaroni. When everything else fails it is always good to have maccaroni to fall back upon. _Chi ha buon pane, e buon vino, ha troppo un micolino._” “I do not care for maccaroni,” said Innocent. She turned from the window, however, with a dawning of the pride of a woman who feels herself slighted. “Niccolo, I do not want anything: you can go away.” “And this is how she parts with the old Niccolo!” he cried. “I have carried her in my arms when she was little. I have dressed her, and prepared for her to eat and drink all her life. I have taken her to the festa, and to the church. I have done all for her--all! and the last night she tells me, ‘I do not want anything, Niccolo; you may go away.’” “The last night?” said Innocent, moved a little. She shivered with the cold, and with the pang of desertion, and with that new-born sense of her loneliness which had never struck her before. She knelt down by the stove to get a little warmth, and turned her eyes inquiringly upon him. She knew what he meant very well, and yet she did not know.