The subtle eye of the Italian marked every point of this exquisite
loveliness, ran admiringly over the outlines of the graceful figure,
the delicate hands and little feet, the classic curve of the lips,
the thin nostrils and tiny ears; then returned to the clear, full
eyes, with their pencilled brows and heavy lashes, and smiled at the
earnestness of the gaze that met his own. Then, from this lovely and
patrician face, the Italian's eyes wandered to Teddy's coarse and
unformed features, and figure of uncouth strength.
"Nightingales are not hatched from hens' eggs," muttered Giovanni in
his native tongue.
"Speak that some more; I like it," said Cherry softly.
"Yes; and you are like it, and, like all that belongs to my Italian,
beautiful and graceful," said Giovanni, dropping the liquid accents
as lovingly from his lips as if they had been a kiss. Then, in the
imperfect English he generally spoke, he asked of Teddy,--
"Where did the child come from?"
"She's my little sister," replied the boy doggedly.
The Italian shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows,
muttering in his own tongue,--
"I never heard or saw any child above there in the first weeks of my
living here. But what affair is it of mine? The child I have lost is
safe with the Holy Mother!"
He crossed himself, and muttered a prayer; then from behind the
stove, where he lay warming himself, pulled a little creature, at
sight of whom Cherry uttered a scream, and clung to Teddy.
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