came. Francesco and our laundress, Theresina, belong to that class of people, who are agreeable to deal with in all countries, from the stamp which they bear of goodness and sound sense. Our host, Crescens, is assuredly the chief of benevolent and eloquent innkeepers. We never lock the doors of our rooms—nor indeed could they be locked—when we are out for half a day, or whole days together, and we leave all our small properties about with perfect security.
Is it the influence of the volcanic nature of our island, as I begin to suspect, or of a higher providence, as I secretly believe?—but be it what it may, I foresee a new flame, and perhaps a new union. Mr. Waldo, our Hercules, begins to bind up bouquets of flowers, and to place them before Psyché's door, in the morning, and in the mean time to pay her other sufficiently significant attentions. She, as yet, however, foresees nothing, neither chooses to do so, because she never intends to be married, and least of all, to Hercules. A certain Prince of Villa Ambrosa, has cast every other man into the shade in my summer-daughter's soul, and she will not listen to their suggestion. When I, to-day, asked her what she would think of Mr. Waldo as a husband? the Princess Elsa stared at me, looked half-offended, and assured me that she could never think of him in that character. She felt esteem for him, confidence in him, but—no, never, impossible! I am sorry that she feels it so “impossible,” because it seems to me that they two would suit each other exactly. He is twenty years older than she, it is true, but a fatherly friend is precisely that which my summer-daughter requires in her
