One afternoon Archbishop Ireland and his train of attendant Abbesses came to see us. The Archbishop’s sister and several other Mothers Superior had come from America to visit Rome; they were a picturesque group. The Archbishop’s sister was a cheery delightful soul; another of the Mothers was so lovely J. wanted to paint her as Santa Theresa. We met them first at the studio of Carolus Duran (now Director of the French Academy) in the Villa Medici. The “_Chèr Maitre_” has brought several of his masterpieces from Paris to Rome, among others a study for a crucifixion, a really noble composition; America ought to have it. The Church is so rich in our country that she could well afford to give him a handsome order for it. The Abbesses in their long veils, taking tea with the great French painter, was one of those impressions of the contrasts of Roman life I shall not forget. They all came to our studio; among the treasured names in the list of autographs are those of Mother Celestine, Mother Seraphine, Mother Agnes Gonzaga. “They remind me,” said Patsy, after the Archbishop and the ladies took their leave, “of Sir Joseph Porter, K. C. B., his sisters and his cousins and his aunts!” Patsy was of the greatest use. He was at the studio almost as much as we ourselves. He devoted himself to the humbler guests if there happened to be some great personage to whom J. had to attend. “It’s a good thing to have friends in every calling,” said Patsy; “you never know just when they may come in handy.” I had reproached him for neglecting lovely Donna Beatrice for old Checco, the proprietor of the Concordia restaurant. “Checco has given me credit many a time when it would have gone hard with me to get a meal anywhere else!” he said. On the eighth of February a note came from the Marchese Guiccioli, Queen Margherita’s gentleman-in-waiting. The superscription, Casa della Regina Madre, set the whole house in a flutter. Eugenio, the porter, himself brought the royal messenger up in the lift. Agnese, who took the letter from him, came hurrying to the terrace, where Ignazio and I were talking about the wall flowers. “See to it,” I was saying, “that this thing does not happen again. You were paid a large price for these flowers, enormous sums were charged for _concime_ (fertilizer) and they have done badly. Last season they were poor spindly little things, while those that sprang by chance from a crevice in the wall by the water pipe were a glory. Expound to me the reason of this absurdity.” “Signora, how can I explain the laws of God? It is according to their nature. Those wall flowers that come up by chance without care always seem the fairest, perhaps because they grow beyond our reach. Those you speak of so abusively smelt like honey; you yourself complained that they attracted not only the butterflies but the bees from the priest’s hive.”