Upon the little balcony Enrica keeps a pot or two of flowers, which bloom all winter long; and each morning I find upon my table a fresh rosebud; each night, I bear back for thank-offering the prettiest bouquet that can be found in the Via Conditti. The quiet fireside evenings come back; in which my hand seeks its wonted place upon her book; and my other _will_ creep around upon the back of Enrica’s chair, and Enrica _will_ look indignant—and then all forgiveness. One day I received a large packet of letters—ah, what luxury to lie back in my big armchair, there before the crackling faggots, with the pleasant rustle of that silken dress beside me, and run over a second, and a third time, those mute paper missives, which bore to me over so many miles of water, the words of greeting, and of love. It would be worth traveling to the shores of the Ægean, to find one’s heart quickened into such life as the ocean letters will make. Enrica threw down her book, and wondered what could be in them—and snatched one from my hand, and looked with sad, but vain intensity over that strange scrawl. What can it be? said she; and she laid her finger upon the little half line—“Dear Paul.” I told her it was—“_Caro mio_.” Enrica laid it upon her lap and looked in my face; “It is from your mother?” said she. “No,” said I. “From your sister?” said she. “Alas, no!” “_Il vostro fratello, dunque?_” “_Nemmeno_”—said I, “not from a brother either.” She handed me the letter, and took up her book; and presently she laid the book down again; and looked at the letter, and then at me—and went out. She did not come in again that evening; in the morning, there was no rose-bud on my table. And when I came at night, with a bouquet from Pietro’s at the corner, she asked me—“who had written my letter?” “A very dear friend,” said I. “A lady?” continued she. “A lady,” said I. “Keep this bouquet for her,” said she, and put it in my hands. “But, Enrica, she has plenty of flowers; she lives among them, and each morning her children gather them by scores to make garlands of.” Enrica put her fingers within my hand to take again the bouquet; and for a moment I held both fingers and flowers. The flowers slipped out first. I had a friend at Rome in that time, who afterward died between Ancona and Corinth; we were sitting one day upon a block of tufa in the middle of the Coliseum, looking up at the shadows which the waving shrubs upon the southern wall cast upon the ruined arcades within, and listening to the chirping sparrows that lived upon the wreck—when he said to me suddenly—“Paul, you love the Italian girl.” “She is very beautiful,” said I. “I think she is beginning to love you,” said he soberly. “She has a very warm heart, I believe,” said I. “Ay,” said he. “But her feelings are those of a girl,” continued I.