“Ay, _Eccellenza_, my god-daughter, _Picciola_, _Picciolina_, _Piccioletta_. Was not I the first to baptize your favourite? Did I not give her the name of _Picciola_? Have you not often told me so yourself? Ergo—the plant is my god-daughter, and I her godfather—_per Bacco!_ I’m growing proud of the distinction!” “_Picciola!_” exclaimed Charney, starting up, and resting his elbow on his pillow, while an expression of the deepest interest took possession of his countenance. “Explain yourself, my good Ludovico, explain yourself!” “Come, come, no shamming stupid, my dear lord!” said the jailer, resuming the customary wink of the eye, “as if ’twas the first time that she had saved your life!” “The first time?” “Didn’t you tell me yourself that the herb was the only specific against the disorder to which you were subject? Lucky job I hadn’t forgotten it; for the Signora Picciola proves to have more wisdom in one of her leaves, than the whole faculty of Montpellier in the noddles that fill its trencher-caps. _Trondidio_, my little god-daughter is able to defeat a regiment of doctors! ay, in full complements—four battalions, and four hundred picked men to each. Pray, did not your three humbugs in black throw back the coverlid on your nose, and pronounce you to be a dead man? while Picciola, the stout-hearted little weed (God send her seed in her harvest!), brought you round in the saying of a paternoster? ’Tis a recipe I mean to keep like the apple of my eye; and if ever poor little Antonio should fall sick, he shall drink broths of the herb, and eat salads of it; though, good truth, ’tis as bitter as wormwood. A single cup of the infusion, and all acted like a charm. _Vittoria! Viva l’illustrissima Signorina Picciola!_” Charney had not the heart to resent these tumultuous ecstasies of his worthy keeper. The idea of being indebted for his life to the agency of the feeble favourite, which had embellished his days of health, insensibly brought a smile to his still feverish lips. But a vague apprehension oppressed his feelings. “In what way, my good Ludovico, did you manage to apply your remedy?” said he, faintly. “Faith! easily enough! A pint of scalding water poured upon the leaves” (Charney bit his lips with anxiety), “in a close kettle, which, after a turn or two over the stove, furnished the decoction.” “Indeed!” exclaimed the Count, falling back on his pillow, and pressing his hand to his forehead. “You have then destroyed the plant! I must not reproach you, Ludovico; you did it for the best. And yet, my poor _Picciola_! What will become of me, now I have lost my little companion!”