We played games to make the time pass; we talked endlessly,--and in the course of talk it naturally came to pass that we told of our adventures, and where we came from, and, in short, who we were. The Greek gentleman turned out to be an old acquaintance of our father, and was greatly overjoyed to see me, and told me many interesting things about the old fighting-days of the revolution. The Italian spoke little during this conversation, but when he heard the word “Boston” he pricked up his ears; and when a pause came, he asked if we came from Boston. “Yes,” we all answered, with the inward satisfaction which every Bostonian feels at being able to make the reply. And had we ever heard, in Boston, he went on to inquire, of “un certo Papanti, maestro di ballo?” “Heard of him!” cried the three dancing-school children,--“we never heard of any one else!” Thereupon ensued much delighted questioning and counter-questioning. This gentleman came from Leghorn, Mr. Papanti’s native city. He knew his family; they were excellent people. Lorenzo himself he had never seen, as he left Italy so many years ago; but reports had reached Leghorn that he was very successful,--that he taught the best people (O Beacon street! O purple windows and brown-stone fronts, I should think so!); that he had invented “un piano sopra molle,” a floor on springs. Was this true? Whereupon we took up our parable, and unfolded to the Livornese mind the glory of Papanti, till he fairly glowed with pride in his famous fellow-townsman. And, finally, was not this a pleasant little episode in a storm-bound steamer in the Gulf of Corinth? CHAPTER IX. OUR FRIENDS. We had so many friends that I hardly know where to begin. First of all, perhaps, I should put the dear old Scotch lady whom we called “D. D.” She had another name, but that is nobody’s business but her own. D. D. was a thousand years old. She always said so when we asked her age, and she certainly ought to have known. No one would have thought it to look at her, for she had not a single gray hair, and her eyes were as bright and black as a young girl’s. One of the pleasantest things about her was the way she dressed, in summer particularly. She wore a gown of white dimity, always spotlessly clean, made with a single plain skirt, and a jacket. The jacket was a little open in front, showing a handkerchief of white net fastened with a brooch of hair in the shape of a harp. Fashions made no difference to D. D. People might wear green or yellow or purple, as they pleased,--she wore her white dimity; and we children knew instinctively that it was the prettiest and most becoming dress that she could have chosen.