prepared to; this very day, perhaps, when he goes to call on the widow.
The door of Signor Odoardo's study is directly opposite the window in which he is standing, and the opening of this door is therefore made known to him by a violent draught.
As he turns a sweet voice says:
"Good-bye, papa dear; I'm going to school."
"Good-bye, Doretta," he answers, stooping to kiss a pretty little maid of eight or nine; and at the same instant Signora Evelina calls out from over the way:
"Good-morning, Doretta!"
Doretta, who had made a little grimace on discovering her papa in conversation with his pretty neighbor, makes another as she hears herself greeted, and mutters reluctantly, "Good-morning."
Then, with her little basket on her arm, she turns away slowly to join the maid-servant who is waiting for her in the hall.
"I am so fond of that child," sighs Signora Evelina, with the sweetest inflexion in her voice, "but she doesn't like me at all!"
"What an absurd idea! . . . Doretta is a very self-willed child."
Thus Signor Odoardo; but in his heart of hearts he too is convinced that his little daughter has no fondness for Signora Evelina.
Meanwhile, the cold is growing more intense,
