“What can they all do? It's a question for the Commissioners.” “So it may; but I take it the Commissioners are human beings.” He turned again to the letter which lay open on the table, and read aloud, “'They want a chaplain, I see, at Albano, near Rome. Do you know any one who could assist you to the appointment?--always providing that you would like it.' I should think I would like it.” “You were thinking of the glorious riding over the Campagna, George, that you told me about long ago?” “I hope not,” said he, blushing deeply, and looked overwhelmed with confusion. “Well, _I_ was, George. Albano reminded me at once of those long moonlight canters you told me about, with the grand old city in the distance. I almost fancy I have seen it all. Let us bethink us of the great people we know, and who would aid us in the matter.” “The list begins and ends with the Lord Culduff, I suspect.” “Not at all. It is the Bramleighs can be of use here. Lady Augusta lives at Rome; she must be, I'm sure, a person of influence there, and be well known too, and know all the English of station. It's a downright piece of good fortune for us she should be there. There, now, be of good heart, and don't look wretched. We 'll drive over to Castello to-morrow.” “They 've been very cool towards us of late.” “As much our fault as theirs, George; some, certainly, was my own.” “Oh, Vickars has heard of her. He says here, 'Is the Lady Augusta Bramleigh, who has a villa at Albano, any relative of your neighbor Colonel Bramleigh? She is very eccentric,--some say mad; but she does what she likes with every one. Try and procure a letter to her.'” “It's all as well as settled, George. We 'll be cantering over that swelling prairie before the spring ends,” said she. Quietly rising and going over to the piano, she began one of those little popular Italian ballads which they call “Stornelli,”--those light effusions of national life which blend up love and flowers and sunshine together so pleasantly, and seem to emblematize the people who sing them. “Thither, oh, thither, George! as the girl sings in Goethe's ballad. Won't it be delightful?” “First let us see if it be possible.” And then they began one of those discussions of ways and means which, however, as we grow old in life, are tinged with all the hard and stern characters of sordid self-interest, are in our younger days blended so thoroughly with hope and trustfulness that they are amongst the most attractive of all the themes we can turn to. There were so many things to be done, and so little to do them with, that it was marvellous to hear of the cunning and ingenious devices by which poverty was to be cheated out of its meanness, and actually imagine itself picturesque. George was not a very imaginative creature; but it was strange to see to what flights he rose as the sportive fancy of the high-spirited girl carried him away to the region of the speculative and the hopeful.