hurrying tears, he laid his hand, too, on the apron, and rubbed one of the cheeks and kissed the baby-like roundness.
"My poor little Tessa! leave off crying. Let us see what can be done. Where is your home—where do you live?"
There was no answer, but the sobs began to subside a little and the drops to fall less quickly.
"Come! I'll take you a little way, if you'll tell me where you want to go."
The apron fell, and Tessa's face began to look as contented as a cherub's budding from a cloud. The diabolical conjuror, the anger and the beating seemed a long way off.
"I think I'll go home, if you'll take me," she said, in a half whisper, looking up at Tito with wide blue eyes, and with something sweeter than a smile—with a child-like calm.
"Come, then, little one," said Tito, in a caressing tone, putting her arm within his again. "Which way is it?"
"Beyond Peretola—where the large pear-tree is."
"Peretola? Out at which gate, pazzarella? I am a stranger, you must remember."
"Out at the Por del Prato," said Tessa, moving along with a very fast hold on Tito's arm.
He did not know all the turnings well enough to venture on an attempt at choosing the quietest streets; and besides, it occurred to him that where
