more regulars, and even some Capuchins, had arrived. Once more a set of folding-doors opened and shut: an aged lady, somewhat older than my host, had entered; and now the presence of what I took to be the lady of the house made me feel perfectly confident that I was in a strange mansion, and wholly unknown to its inmates. Dinner was now served; and I was keeping close to the side of my friends, the monks, in order to slip with them into the paradise of the dining-room, when all at once I saw Filangieri, with his wife, enter and make his excuses for being so late. Shortly after this my little princess came into the room, and with nods, and winks, and bows, to all as she passed, came straight to me. "It is very good of you to keep your word," she exclaimed: "mind you sit by me,—you shall have the best bits,—wait a minute, though; I must find out which is my proper place, then mind and take your place by me." Thus commanded, I followed the various windings she made, and at last we reached our seats, Benedictine sitting right opposite, and Filangieri on my other side. "The dishes are all good," she observed,—"all Lenten fare, but choice: I'll point out to you the best. But now I must rally the priests,—the churls! I can't bear them: every day they are cutting a fresh slice off our estate. What we have, we should like to spend on ourselves and our friends." The soup was now handed round,—the Benedictine was sipping his very deliberately. "Pray don't put yourself out of your way,—the spoon is too small, I fear: I will bid them bring you a larger one. Your reverences are used to a good mouthful." The good father replied, "In your house, lady, everything is so excellent, and so well arranged, that much more distinguished guests than your humble servant would find everything to their heart's content."
Of the pasties the Benedictine took only one. She called out to him, "Pray take half a dozen: pastry,
