to serve her.  So I had to stand and wait, and when the lady put back her veil to look at something she was going to buy, I saw her face.  Oh, Herr Ritter! it was my sister, my sister Carlotta!  I was certain of it!  I was certain of it!  Nevertheless; after she had gone, I asked the shop-woman some questions about the lady.  She did not tell me much, for I fancy she thought me inquisitive; but she told me, at least, all I had need to know.  Her customer, she said, was the wife of a very rich inn-keeper, and her name was Carlotta Nero.  She is lodging, the woman told me, at the Casa d’Oro.  I didn’t go to see her then, of course, because she could not then have reached home; but I want to go tomorrow, if I can manage to walk so far, for I think she would like to see me again, and I am sure I should like to see her.  And, shall I tell you what else I am thinking about, Herr Ritter?  It is that, perhaps,—­perhaps, her husband, being so rich, he might be able to put ’Tista in the way of doing something, or of getting me some work, so that we could save up the money for his apprenticeship by-and-by.  What do you think of it now, Herr Ritter?  My sister, you know, is the only friend I have in the world, except you, kind, dear Herr! and I don’t think she would mind my asking her this, though we did part in anger; do you?  For that was ten years ago.”

She paused again, and Herr Ritter gazed tenderly at the poor sharp face, with its purple eyelids and quivering parted lips, through which the heavy rapid breath came every moment with a sudden painful shudder, like a sob.  I think he was wondering, pityingly, what such a feeble, shattered creature as she could have to do with work, at least, on this side of death.

“Herr Ritter!  Herr Ritter!” cried ’Tista, bursting open the door of the little chamber, in a state of great delight; “look what Cristofero has just given me!  These beautiful roses!  Will you have them?”

“Not I, ’Tista, thank you.  Gay colors and sweet odours are not for me.  Put them here in this cup by your mother’s side.  Now, Frau ’Lora, I will not be contradicted!”

“Won’t you have one of them, Herr Ritter?” asked the boy, wistfully, holding out towards the old man a spendid crimson bud.

He answered hurriedly, with a gesture of avoidance.

“No, no, ’Tista!  I never touch roses!  See here, I’ll take a cluster of this, ’tis more in my line a great deal.”  He turned away to the lattice as he spoke; rather, I thought, to conceal a certain emotion that had crossed his face at the sight of the roses than for any other reason, and laid his hand upon me.

“Why, that’s nightshade!” cried the boy in surprise.

“No matter,” answered the old German, breaking off my blossom-head, and tucking its stalk into the buttonhole of his rusty coat; “I like it, it suits me.  Belladonna is not to be despised, as you ought to know, Master Chemist!” Then, in a softer tone, “I shall come and see you tomorrow morning, Frau ’Lora, before you start.  Goodnight.”