As for Hanserl, he worked from daylight to dusk. Already the little garden, weed-grown and uncared-for before, was as blooming as his former one at the Alten Schloss. Under Nelly's guidance many a device was executed that seemed almost miraculous to the simple neighbors; and the lichen-clad rocks, the waving water-lilies or trellised creepers, which, in the wild wantonness of nature they had never noticed, now struck them as the very creations of genius. Even old Andy was not forgotten in their schemes of happiness; and the old huntsman used to spend hours in the effort to tame a young fox a peasant had brought him,--a labor not the less interesting that its progress suffered many a check, and that many a laugh arose at the backslidings of the pupil. And now we leave them for a brief season, all occupied and all happy; nor do we like the fate that calls us away to other and very different associates. CHAPTER XXIV. FLORENCE. It was of a calm but starless night in winter that Florence was illuminated in honor of a victory over the Austrian troops at Goito. Never was patriotic ardor higher,--never were stronger the hopes of Italian independence. From the hour of their retreat from Milan, the imperial forces had met with little but reverses, and, as day by day they fell back towards the Tyrol Alps, the hosts of their enemies swelled and increased around them; and from Genoa to the Adriatic all Italy was in march to battle. It is not to speculate on the passable current of events, nor yet to dwell on the causes of that memorable failure, by which dissentient councils and false faith--the weakness of good men and the ambition of bad ones--brought rain when there might have been victory, still less is it to gaze upon the brilliant spectacle of the rejoicing city, that we are now wending our way along the Arno, scarcely stopping to notice the thousand stars that glitter on the Duomo, nor the flickering lines of light which trace out the gigantic tower of the Palazzo Vecchio. Our theme is more humble than the former, and far too serious for such dalliance as the latter. Leaving the crowded streets, resounding with the wild acclamations and wilder songs of the people, we pass over the Ponte Vecchio, and enter once again the dark abode of Racca Morlache. Whether from any suspicion of his unpopularity with the people, or from some secret necessity for precaution, the door is fastened by many an extra bolt, and more than one massive chain retains the iron shutters of the window. Perhaps there is something in this conscious security that has made him so sparing in his display of external joy, for two dim, discolored lamps were all that appeared above the door, and these were soon hurled down in contemptuous anger by the populace, leaving the little building in total darkness.