"Yes, father."
"Would n't you rather go and see your grandmamma yourself?"
"With whom?" the child falters anxiously, her little heart beating a frantic tattoo as she awaits his answer.
"With me, Doretta."
"With you, daddy?" she exclaims, hardly daring to believe her ears.
"Yes, with me; with your daddy."
"Oh, daddy, daddy!" she cries, her little arms about his neck, her kisses covering his face. "Oh, daddy, my own dear daddy! When shall we start?"
"To-morrow morning, if you're not afraid of the snow."
"Why not now? Why not at once?"
"Gently—gently. Good Lord, does n't the child want her dinner first?"
And Signor Odoardo, gently detaching himself from his daughter's embrace, rises and rings for the lamp. Then, instinctively, he glances once more towards the window. In the opposite house all is dark, and Signora Evelina's profile is no longer outlined against the pane. The weather is still threatening, and now and then a snowflake falls. The servant closes the shutters and draws the curtains, so that no profane gaze may penetrate into the domestic sanctuary.
"We had better dine in here," Signor Odoardo
