[Sidenote: “HENRY’S” ITALIAN] For instance, one morning when starting from the door of the hotel where we had passed the night, the large Berline in which we were travelling was surrounded by a host of beggars. My mother had caused some “largesse” to be distributed, especially to the woman in charge of the blind beggar, who invariably figures in the group, when, to Henry’s indignation, she repeated her demands, and was bold enough to ask for more. Then he turned upon her in all the eloquent indignation of his newly-acquired language, “Volete, prendete tutto, prendete carozza e cavalli!” Poor Henry! He knew “Volete” was right, and “prendete” was right—how could he imagine the combination could be wrong? I well knew that nothing pleased him more than to be trusted with messages or directions to the Italian servants. Therefore, one day when driving in Florence, I said to him, “Henry, pray tell the coachman that the carriage window is broken.” “Ehe, cocchiere, il bicchiere é rotto.” But he invariably contrived to make himself understood, and was a great favourite with the Italians, from his easy good humour and willingness to help on all occasions. In addition to his other talents, Henry was an adept with his needle, an excellent cook, and an incomparable waiter. He was slow of hearing, which perhaps sharpened his powers of vision, and we got into a habit of communicating with him by signs. He identified himself with our family in rather a comical manner sometimes. “It is getting quite late in September, Henry,” said my sister-in-law to him one day, “and we have had no game sent us yet; it is very odd.” “Very true, Ma’am, very true,” was the sympathetic reply; “I think it is too bad. Why, there is Lord Cork, the nearest relation we have, to think he should not send us a single partridge!” Henry was in his way a moralist, and came to me once in great indignation after reading a paragraph in some scandalous paper, with the sapient remark that he thought “Every lady was getting as bad as one another.” Poor, good, faithful fellow, his death was an untimely one! After retiring from service he had taken a small cottage at Weedon, in Northamptonshire, and was often employed as waiter or to carry errands for the neighbouring gentry, who knew and respected him. One day he was missed at home, and was sought, and found near a rickety bridge where he had slipped and fallen head foremost into a small stream. Life was already extinct, and on the bank, watching over that prostrate form, sat his faithful little dog, with that despairing, wistful gaze, so well known to every true lover of the canine species. [Sidenote: HERO-WORSHIP]