"It came about this way, mamma. We were in the kitchen the other day. I wanted to watch the maid cooking over the charcoal flames in that queer stone stove. And Tessa said then she had seen such a big piece of meat roasting for dinner only two or three times in her life. Then we went on talking and she spoke of what she usually had at home. Her mother uses olive oil in almost everything, just as our cook does. I should think it would be better than the lard we have in America, isn't it?" "Yes, indeed, for it is much more wholesome. It is obtained from olives, you know, instead of the fat of pigs. People would use more of it in America if it did not cost so much by the time it has travelled across the ocean. But I hear your father's footsteps. Let us go and meet him." The artist was not alone, for Tessa was with him. She was looking much pleased. "It is raining hard," said Mr. Gray, "and I have just seen Tessa's father and asked him to let her spend the night with us. It is too great a storm for her to go out in. The little girl has done finely for me to-day, and she sat so well that I got along on my picture quite rapidly. So she will dine with us to-night and I will tell you stories in Italian. After that, we will have games." Lucy ran and put her arms around Tessa's neck. "What a good time we shall have," she cried. "Father tells lovely stories. Oh, Tessa, I wish you were my own sister." Tessa turned her big dark eyes to the floor. There were tears in them, but they were tears of gladness. She had never had a cross word spoken to her in her whole life. She had never been punished for any little fault. But her loving little heart had not expected this: that the American child who was always dressed so beautifully, whose parents seemed so rich in her eyes, should wish a sister like her, a peasant girl. She could scarcely believe it. The dinner seemed a very grand one to Tessa. One surprise was brought in after another. There were four separate courses! Last, came a delicious ice and frosted cakes. It seemed to the little Italian like a feast of the fairies. After the dinner was over, the family went into the great drawing-room. Rugs were stretched here and there over the marble floor. There were soft couches and odd, spider-legged tables and chairs. "We don't own the furniture," Lucy told her visitor. "It belongs here in the palace and is the same kind as the prince uses. He lives below us. It is beautiful, father thinks, but he does wish we could be warmer on these cold, windy days. You have very queer stoves in your country, Tessa. You should feel the heat that comes from ours in America." And Lucy held her hands over the jar filled with burning charcoal. It certainly gave the room little extra warmth.