light thoughtless things, who, like the butterfly, hurry from object to object without ever fixing their attention on any one. Mela’s vanity was flattered by finding it lay in her power, as if by enchantment, to entice from her neighbour’s lute either the most joyous strains, or the most melancholy lays.
Mother Brigitta, intent on her trade, paid no attention to the musician, and her daughter was by no means anxious to impart her late discovery: on the contrary, either from a desire to show her penetration, or from a secret inclination towards her musical neighbour, she considered how she might reply to his harmonious addresses in some other symbolical language. She requested permission of her mother, to place a few flower-pots before the window, and as the old lady, from no longer seeing her once prying neighbour, no longer dreaded him, she saw no harm in indulging Mela in this innocent amusement, and readily granted her request.
To cultivate these flowers, to water them and bind them to the sticks, as likewise to observe
