“Why, Anita,” said I, “I am sure some other flowers would look very pretty there.  I do not believe the Signora will be unhappy about it.”

Anita shook her head and half smiled with a look of pitying compassion.

“But, Signora, you do not know; that dearest and most beautiful of Signoras has visions from the angels about her flowers.  Holy Virgin! if she would but come and hang flowers around the Bambino in our church!  None of the Holy Sisters can so weave them as she does; she makes Festa forever in the house for the Signor; and I think, Signora,” crossing herself and looking sharply at me, “perhaps the gold table is the shrine of her religion:  does the Signora know?”

I could not help laughing.  “Oh no, Anita,” I said; “we do not have shrines in our religion.”

Anita’s face clouded.  “Iddio mio!” she said, “but the Virgin will keep the dearest Signora Maynardi.  Biagio and I have vowed to keep a candle always burning for her in Ara Coeli!  The dearest, most beautiful of Signoras;” and Anita walked disconsolately on, down the stairs.

I found Dora kneeling before the “gold table,” arranging great masses of maiden-hair fern around the wood carving and in the shelf below.  As I saw the rapt and ecstatic expression of her face, I understood why Anita had believed the gold table to be a shrine.

“They do not suit it like the anemones,” said she, sadly; “and I can have no more anemones this year.”

“So poor Anita told me just now on the stairs,” replied I.  “She was almost crying, she was so sorry she could not get them for you.  But I am sure, dear, the ferns are beautiful on it.  I think the pale green looks even better than the purple with the gold and the pale yellow wood.”

“I like the purple best,” said Dora; “besides, we always had purple at home,” and her eyes filled with tears.  Then, turning suddenly to me, she said, “Why have you never asked me what this is?  I know you must have wondered:  it looks so strange—­this poor little clumsy bit of American pine, on my gilt table shrined with flowers!”

“Yes, I have wondered, I acknowledge, for I could not make out the design,” I replied; “but I thought it might have some story connected with it, which you would tell me if you wished I should know.  I did not think it clumsy; I think it is fantastic, and has a certain sort of weird life-likeness about it.”

“Do you really think it has any life-like look about it?” and Dora’s face flushed with pleasure.  “I think so, but I supposed nobody else could see anything in it.  No one of my acquaintance has ever alluded to it,” continued she, half laughing, half crying, “but I see them trying to scrutinize it slyly when they are not observed.  As for poor old Anita, I believe she thinks it is our Fetish.  She walks round it on tiptoe with her hands clasped on her apron.”