“I like working at home better than going abroad to sit,” said Nanina, looking very much abashed as she faltered out the answer, and escaping from the room with a terrified farewell obeisance, which was an eccentric compound of a start, a bow, and a courtesy.

“That awkward child would be pretty,” said Mademoiselle Virginie, making rapid progress with the cutting-out of her dress, “if she knew how to give herself a complexion, and had a presentable gown on her back.  Who is she?”

“The friend who is to get me into Master Luca Lomi’s studio,” replied Brigida, laughing.  “Rather a curious ally for me to take up with, isn’t she?”

“Where did you meet with her?”

“Here, to be sure; she hangs about this place for any plain work she can get to do, and takes it home to the oddest little room in a street near the Campo Santo.  I had the curiosity to follow her one day, and knocked at her door soon after she had gone in, as if I was a visitor.  She answered my knock in a great flurry and fright, as you may imagine.  I made myself agreeable, affected immense interest in her affairs, and so got into her room.  Such a place!  A mere corner of it curtained off to make a bedroom.  One chair, one stool, one saucepan on the fire.  Before the hearth the most grotesquely hideous unshaven poodle-dog you ever saw; and on the stool a fair little girl plaiting dinner-mats.  Such was the household—­furniture and all included.  ‘Where is your father?’ I asked.  ‘He ran away and left us years ago,’ answers my awkward little friend who has just left the room, speaking in that simple way of hers, with all the composure in the world.  ’And your mother?’—­’Dead.’  She went up to the little mat-plaiting girl as she gave that answer, and began playing with her long flaxen hair.  ‘Your sister, I suppose,’ said I.  ’What is her name?’—­’They call me La Biondella,’ says the child, looking up from her mat (La Biondella, Virginie, means The Fair).  ’And why do you let that great, shaggy, ill-looking brute lie before your fireplace?’ I asked.  ‘Oh!’ cried the little mat-plaiter, ’that is our dear old dog, Scarammuccia.  He takes care of the house when Nanina is not at home.  He dances on his hind legs, and jumps through a hoop, and tumbles down dead when I cry Bang!  Scarammuccia followed us home one night, years ago, and he has lived with us ever since.  He goes out every day by himself, we can’t tell where, and generally returns licking his chops, which makes us afraid that he is a thief; but nobody finds him out, because he is the cleverest dog that ever lived!’ The child ran on in this way about the great beast by the fireplace, till I was obliged to stop her; while that simpleton Nanina stood by, laughing and encouraging her.  I asked them a few more questions, which produced some strange answers.  They did not seem to know of any relations of theirs in the world.  The neighbors in the house had helped them, after their father ran away, until they were old enough to help