An undercurrent of anxiety and affection for his father runs through the correspondence at this time, and a month later he seeks to gratify a grandfather’s feelings by devoting a whole letter, written as clearly as possible that his father might read it himself, about the sayings and doings of the two children. Some theologic questions are beginning,” he writes, “to vex her [Mabel’s] mind somewhat. She inquired of me very gravely the other day, when I said something to her about her Heavenly Father, ‘Papa, have I got a Heavenly Grandfather?’ The pictures in the churches make a great impression (and not always a pleasant one) upon her. She said to me one day: ‘O my dear papa, I love you so very much, because you take care of me; and I love mamma very much because she takes care of me; and I love Mary very much because she takes care of me; and I love Heavenly Father because he takes care of me; and I love the Madonna very much because she takes care of me; and I love the angels because they take care of me; and I love that one with the swords stuck into her, and that other one with the stick.’ These last were no doubt pictures she had seen somewhere. During Carnival, we did not let her go to the Corso much, because there was so much throwing of _confetti_, which are small seeds or pellets of clay about as large as peas, coated with plaster of Paris. However, she saw the edges of the great stream, here and there, as it overflowed into the side streets, and talked a great deal to Faustina about _Pulcinelli_ and _Pagliacci_. She threatened rather sharply to pay back ‘Mister _Pulcinello_’ (as she always respectfully called him when she spoke of him in English) in his own coin, if he threw any _confetti_, or oftener, _nasty confetti_, at her. One day she was walking with me through the Piazza di Spagna, with half a roll in her hand, when she saw one of the lacqueys of the S. P. Q. R. in his queer costume. She instantly set him down for a _Pulcinello_, and I had much ado to hinder her from hurling the fragment of her roll at him, much as she once threw a dry bun at somebody else who shall be nameless. She is making great progress in Italian under the tuition of Dinda and Amelia, two nice little girls, daughters of our Padrone. One of the great events in her day is always the pudding--in _trattoria_ Italian _il budino_. As soon as the great tin _stufa_ has safely made its descent from the head of the _facchino_ to the floor, she begins a dance around it, shouting in a voice loud enough to be heard as far as the Trinità dei Monti, ‘_O Faustina, ditemi! C’è un puddino oggi?_’ And if it turn out that there be only a pie, which is a forbidden _dolce_ to her, she forthwith drops her voice to its lowest key and growls--‘_Mi dispiace molto, mo-o-lto, Faustina; pudino non c’è: ce sono solamente pasticcie_.’ Sometimes I have heard her add with a good deal of dignity, ‘_Dite al cuoco che mi dispiace molto_.’ A day or