A frozen wind whirled whistling through the deserted streets. Salvator soon felt the necessity of seeking for an asylum; and dragging himself as far as the corner of Bergognona street, near the Corso, he stopped before a silent little house, with two windows, in which lived a poor widow with her two daughters. This family had made a home for him at the time of his first visit to Rome, when he was nothing but a poor unknown artist. Salvator hoped that this remembrance would procure him a kindly welcome. He knocked for a long time without being able to make himself heard; finally the widow, suddenly awaking, came gropingly and half opened the window, grumbling with her whole soul against the belated individual who came to disturb her repose at this hour of the night; but as soon as Salvator, after many words wholly lost, thanks to the state of half slumber in which the lady was wrapped, had succeeded in making himself recognized—
"What is it!" exclaimed his old hostess, "what, is that you, master Salvator? You are very welcome; your little chamber has remained empty, and the fig-tree which grew up against the wall, now encloses the window in its fresh foliage. My good friend, how happy my daughters will be to see you again! You will no longer recognize my dear Margaret, she has grown so tall and handsome! and your favorite cat, alas! she, three months ago choked herself with a fish-bone. We are all mortal! And our fat neighbor, whom you so well caricatured, has married a Signor Luigi, a young man.—Heaven be praised for all; but singular marriages are arranged up above."
"But," interrupted Salvator, with great exertion, "for heaven's sake, Madame Catherine, open the door for me at once, then we will talk at our ease about the fig-tree, your daughter, the cat and the fat neighbor. I am dying of fatigue and hunger."
"Well, well!" said the old lady, grumblingly, "patience, I am coming."
Then it took her a good quarter of an hour to find the key
