He was as pale as death, and woefully emaciated. But the society of the ladies acted like a charm upon him; and from the moment when he left his room his strength came back rapidly.

He would have liked it still better if he had been able to see the younger sister alone; but that was impossible, for the sisters were inseparable. One evening, however, the Don offered to take them to the cathedral to see some ceremony. Ida declined, but the other eagerly accepted.

So Buttons for the first time in his life found himself alone with the maid of his heart. It was a solemn season.

Both were much embarrassed. Buttons looked as though he had something dreadful to tell; the Senorita as though she had something dreadful to hear. At length Buttons began to tell the story of his many searches, pursuits, wanderings, etc., in search of her, and particularly his last search at Florence, in which he had grown disheartened, and had made up his mind to follow her to Spain. At last he came to the time when he caught up to them on the road. He had seen them first. His heart told him that one of the ladies was Ida. Then he had lost all control of himself, and had leaped down to rescue her.

The Spanish nature is an impetuous, a demonstrative, a fiery nature. The Senorita was a Spaniard. As Buttons told all this in passionate words, to which his ardent love gave resistless eloquence, her whole manner showed that her heart responded. An uncontrollable excitement filled her being; her large, lustrous eyes, bright with the glow of the South, now beamed more luminously through her tears, and—in short: Buttons felt encouraged—and ventured nearer—and, almost before he knew it himself, somehow or other, his arm had got round a slender waist!

While the Senorita trembled—timidly drew back—and then all was still!—except, of course, whisperings—and broken sentences—and soft, sweet......Well, all these were brought to an abrupt close by the return of the Don and his sister.

As they entered the room they saw Buttons at one end, and the Senorita at the other. The moonbeams stole in softly through the window.

"Why did you not call for a light?"

"Oh, it is so pleasant in the moonshine!"

At the end of a few weeks there came the great, the unlooked-for, the unhoped-for news—the Peace of Villafranca! So war was over. Moreover, the road was open. They could go wherever they wished.

Buttons was now strong enough to travel. Dick and the Senator were as well as ever. The news of the Peace was delightful to the travellers.

Not so, however, to the Bolognese. They railed at Napoleon. They forgot all that he had done, and taunted him with what he had neglected to do. They insulted him. They made caricatures of him. They spread scandalous reports about him. Such is the way of the world.



CHAPTER XLIX.

CROSSING INTO THE ENEMY'S COUNTRY.—CONSTERNATION OF THE CUSTOM-HOUSE OFFICERS.

The journey was a pleasant one. The Spaniards were an agreeable addition to the party in the estimation of others than Buttons. The Senator devoted himself particularly to the elder sister. Indeed, his acquaintance with La Cica, as he afterward confessed, had given him a taste for foreign ladies. He carried on little conversations with the Senorita in broken English. The Senorita's English was pretty, but not very idiomatic. The Senator imitated her English remarkably well, and no doubt did it out of compliment. He also astonished the company by speaking at the very top of a voice whose ordinary tone was far stronger than common.



The journey from Bologna to Ferrara was not diversified by any incident. Buttons was rapidly regaining his gayety and his strength. He wore his arm in a sling, it is true, but thought it better to have a broken arm with the Senorita than a sound one without her. It must be confessed, however, that his happiness was visible not so much in lively conversation as in his flushed cheek, glistening eye, and general air of ecstasy. Moreover, Ida could not speak English much—a conversation in that language was difficult, and they would not be so rude to the Senator as to talk Spanish in his presence. The consequence was that the conversation flagged, and the Senator was by far the most talkative member of the company, and laid out all his strength in broken English.

Ferrara was reached at last, and they put up at a hotel which boasted of having entertained in its day any quantity of kings, emperors, and nobles of every European nation. It is an astonishing town. Vast squares, all desolate; great cathedrals, empty; proud palaces, neglected and ruinous; broad streets, grass-grown and empty; long rows of houses, without inhabitants; it presents the spectacle of a city dying without hope of recovery. The Senator walked through every street in Ferrara, looked carelessly at Tasso's dungeon, and seemed to feel relieved when they left the city.

On arriving at the Po. which forms the boundary between this district and Venetia, they underwent some examination from the authorities, but crossed without accident. But on the other side they found the Austrian officials far more particular. They asked a multiplicity of questions, opened every trunk, scanned the passports, and detained them long. The ladies were annoyed in a similar manner, and a number of Roman and Neapolitan trinkets which had passed the Italian doganas were now taken from them.

Dick had a valise, both compartments of which were strapped down carefully. Under a cairn exterior he concealed a throbbing heart, for in that valise was the Doctor's pistol, upon which he relied in anticipation of future dangers. The officials opened the valise. It was apparently a puzzle to them. They found but little clothing. On the contrary, a very extensive assortment of articles wrapped in paper and labelled very neatly. These they opened one by one in the first compartment, and found the following:

1, Six collars; 2, a brick; 3, lump of lime; 4, pebbles; 5, plaster; 6, ashes; 7, paper; 8, another brick; 9, a chip; 10, more plaster; 11, more ashes; 13, an ink bottle; 13, three pair stockings; 14, more ashes; 15, more ashes; 16, a neck-tie; 17, a bit of wood; 18, vial; 19, some grass; 20, bone; 21, rag; 22, stone; 23, another stone: 24, some more grass; 25, more pebbles; 26, more bones; 27, pot of blacking; 28, slippers; 29, more stones; 30, more stones.

The officials started up with an oath apiece. Their heavy German faces confronted Dick with wrath and indignation, and every separate hair of their warlike mustaches stood out. However, they swallowed their rage, and turned to the others. Dick drew a long breath of relief. The pistol was safe. It had been taken apart and each piece wrapped in paper and labelled. Had he carried it about with him it would have been taken.

The Senator thought it was better to have three battles with brigands than one encounter with custom-house officials. He had a little store of specimens of Italian manufactures, which were all taken from him. One thing struck him forcibly, and that was the general superiority of the Austrian over the Roman side.

There was more thrift neatness, and apparent prosperity. His sentiments on this subject were embodied in a letter home, which he wrote from Padua on a dreary evening which they spent there before starting for Venice:

"If this part of Italy is oppressed by Austria, then all I can say is, that the pressure has squeezed an immense amount of vegetation out of the soil. Passing from the Roman territories into the Austrian is like going from darkness into light, or from Canada into the United States. What kind of people are they who do better under foreign rule than Native? In my opinion, the territories of the Pope are worse than those of other rulers in Italy. A Spanish friend of mine tells me that it is because the thoughts of the Pope's subjects are set not on things below, but on things on high. He tells me that we've got to choose between two masters—Christianity on the one hand, and Mammon on the other. Whoever chooses the latter will be destitute of the former. He gives as examples of this France, England, and America, which countries, though possessed of the highest material blessings, are yet a prey to crime, scepticism, doubt, infidelity, heresy, false doctrine, and all manner of similar evils. Those nations which prefer religion to worldly prosperity present a different scene; and he points to Spain and Italy—poor in this world's goods, but rich in faith—the only evils which afflict them being the neighborhood of unbelieving nations."



CHAPTER L.

VENICE AND ITS PECULIAR GLORY.—THE DODGE CLUB COME TO GRIEF AT LAST. —UP A TREE.—IN A NET, ETC.

Few sensations are so singular as that which the traveller experiences on his first approach to Venice. The railway passes for miles through swamps, pools, ponds, and broken mud banks, till at length, bursting away altogether from the shore, it pushes directly out into the sea. Away goes the train of cars over the long viaduct, and the traveller within can scarcely understand the situation. The firm and even roll and the thunder of the wheels tell of solid ground beneath; but outside of the windows on either side there is nothing but a wide expanse of sea.

At length the city is reached. The train stops, and the passenger steps out into the station-house. But what a station-house! and what a city! There is the usual shouting from carriers and cabmen, but none of that deep roar of a large city which in every other place drones heavily into the traveller's ear.

Going out to what he thinks is a street, the traveller finds merely a canal. Where are the carriages, cabs, caliches, hand-carts, barouches, pony-carriages, carryalls, wagons, hansoms, hackneys, wheelbarrows, broughams, dog-carts, buggies? Where are the horses, mares, dogs, pigs, ponies, oxen, cows, cats, colts, calves, and livestock generally?

Nowhere. There's not a wheeled carriage in the place. It may be doubted if there is a dog. There certainly is not a cow. The people use goats' milk. The horse is as unknown as the pterodactyl, icthyosaurus, dodo, iguanodon, mastodon, great awk. How do they go about? Where are the conveniences for moving to and fro?

Then, at the platform of the station, a score or two of light gondolas await you. The gondolier is the cabman. He waits for you, with his hand toward you, and the true "Keb, Sir!" tone and smile. A double-sized gondola is here called an "omnibus," and the name is painted on the side in huge letters. And these are the substitutes for wheeled vehicles.



Now after entering one of these you go along smoothly and noiselessly. The first thing one notices in Venice is the absence of noise. As the boat goes along the only sound that is heard is the sharp cry from the boatman as he approaches a corner. At first the novelty interests the mind, afterward it affects the spirits. In three days most people leave the city in a kind of panic. The stillness is awful. A longer stay would reduce one to a state of melancholy madness. A few poets, however, have been able to endure, and even to love, the sepulchral stillness of the city. But to appreciate Venice one must be strongly poetical.

There are many things to be seen. First of all there is the city itself, one grand curiosity, unique, with nothing on earth that bears a distant approach to it. Its canals, gondolas, antique monuments, Byzantine architecture, bridges, mystery: its pretty women with black lace veils, the true glory of Venice—though Murray says nothing about them.

For Murray, in what was meant to be an exhaustive description of Venice, has omitted all mention of that which makes it what it is. Whereas if it had been Homer instead of Murray he would have rolled out the following epithets: [Transcriber's Note: Greek transliteration] euplokamoi, apalai, choroetheis, eukomoi, rodopechees, erateinai, kalliplokamoi, elkechitones, kuanopides, imeroessai, bathukolpoi, ligumolpoi: k. t. l. [/end Greek]

The travellers visited the whole round of sights. They remained in company and went about in the same gondola. The Senator admired what he saw as much as any of them, though it appeared to be out of his particular line. It was not the Cathedral of St. Mark's, however, nor the Doge's Palace, nor the Court of the Inquisition, nor the Bridge of Sighs, nor the Rialto, that interested him, but rather the spectacle of all these magnificent edifices around him, with all the massive masonry of a vast city, built up laboriously on the uncertain sand. He admired the Venetians who had done this. To such men, he thought, the commerce of the world might well have belonged. In discussing the causes of the decline of Venice he summed up the subject in a few words, and in the clearest possible manner.

"These Venetians, when they set up shop, were in the principal street of the world—the Mediterranean. They had the best stand in the street. They did work up their business uncommon well now, and no mistake. They made money hand over fist, and whatever advantage could be given by energy, capital, and a good location, they got. But the currents of traffic change in the world just as they do in a city. After a while it passed in another direction. Venice was thrown out altogether. She had no more chance than a New York shop would have after the business that it lived on had gone into another street. Hence," said the Senator—he always said "hence" when he was coming to a triumphant conclusion—"hence the downfall of Venice."

On arriving at their hotel a little circumstance occurred which made them look at Venice from a new and startling point of view. On going to their rooms after dinner they were followed by a file of Austrian soldiers. They wanted to see the passports. They requested this in a thick guttural tone, which made the Americans feel quite nervous. They showed the passports nevertheless.

On looking over them the Austrian soldiers arrested them. They were informed that if they went peaceably they would be well treated, but if they made any resistance they would all be bound.

The Americans remonstrated. No use. A thousand conjectures were made as to the cause of their arrest, but they were completely baffled. Before they could arrive at any conclusion they had arrived at the place of their destination, to which they had, of course, been taken in a gondola. It was too dark to distinguish the place, but it looked like a large and gloomy edifice. The soldiers took them to a room, where they locked them all in together. It was a comfortable apartment, with another larger one opening from it, in which were two beds and two couches. Evidently they were not neglected.



After waiting for half the night in a kind of fever they retired to rest. They slept but little. They rose early, and at about seven o'clock breakfast was brought in to them, with a guard of soldiers following the waiters.

After breakfast they were visited again. This time it was a legal gentleman. They did not know who he was, but he gave them to understand that he was a person high in authority. He questioned them very closely as to their business in Venice, but did his questioning in a courteous manner. After about an hour he left.

Lunch was brought in at one o'clock. Their feelings at being treated in this mysterious manner can be imagined. Such neglect of the rights of man—such trifling with his time and patience—such utter disregard of habeas corpus, awaked indignation which words could not express.

Positively they were treated like dumb cattle; locked up, fed, deprived of liberty and fresh air; no communication with friends outside; and, worst of all, no idea in the world of the cause of their imprisonment. They came to the conclusion that they were mistaken for some other parties—for some Cacciatori degli Alpi; and Buttons insisted that the Senator was supposed to be Garibaldi himself. In these troublous times any idea, however absurd, might be acted upon.

At about three in the afternoon the door was thrown open, and a file of soldiers appeared. An officer approached and requested the prisoners to follow. They did so. They passed along many halls, and at length came to a large room. A long table extended nearly from one end to another. Soldiers were arranged down the sides of the apartment.

At the head of the table sat an elderly man, with a stern face, ferocious mustache, sharp eye, bushy gray eyebrows, and universal air of Mars. His uniform showed him to be a General. By his side was their visitor of the morning. Officials sat at the table.

"Silence!"



CHAPTER LI.

THE AMERICAN EAGLE AND THE AUSTRIAN DOUBLE-HEADED DITTO.

At the command of the Austrian General every body became still. Thereupon he motioned to the prisoners to stand at the bottom of the table. They did so. The General took a long stare at the prisoners, particularly at the Senator. They bore it steadily. As for the Senator, he regarded the other with an expression which would have done honor to the Austrian General's own father.

"Who are you?"

The General spoke in German. The legal gentleman, at his side instantly interpreted it into English.

"Americans."

"Ah! dangerous characters—dangerous characters! What is your business?"

"Travellers."

"Travellers? Ah! But what are your occupations in America?"

"Our passports tell."

"Your passports say—'Gentlemen.'"

"Well, we are gentlemen."

The Austrian looked blank. After a while he resumed; and as he directed his glance to the Senator the latter made all the replies, while the Interpreter served as a medium of communication.

"How long have you been in Italy?"

"Two or three months."

"You came here just about the commencement of these difficulties?"

"Yes—the beginning of the war."

"Where did you land?"

"At Naples."

"Naples? Ha! hm! Where did you go next?"

"To Rome. We stayed there a few weeks and then went to Florence; from Florence to Bologna, and thence through Ferrara and Padua to Venice."

"You went to Florence! How long ago did you leave?"

"About a month ago."

"A month! Ah, hm!"

And the General exchanged glances with the legal gentleman at his side.

"What were you doing in Florence?"

"Seeing the city."

"Did you place yourselves in connection with the Revolutionists?"

"No."

"Did you have any thing to do with the emissaries of Garibaldi?"

"Nothing."

"Take care how you deny."

"We say we know nothing at all either of the Revolutionists or Imperialists or Garibaldians or any other party. We are merely travellers."

"Hm—a strong disavowment," said the General to himself. "You have never in any way countenanced the rebels."'

"No."

"Think before you speak."

"We are free Americans. Perhaps you know that the citizens of that country say what they think and do what they like. We have gone on that rule in Italy. What I say is, that we do not know any thing about rebels or any political parties in the country."

"Do you know La Cica?" asked the General, with the air of a man who was putting a home-thrust, and speaking with uncommon fierceness.

"I do," said the Senator, mildly.

"You know her well? You are one of her intimate friends?"

"Am I?"

"Are you not?"

"I am friendly with her. She is an estimable woman, with much feeling and penetration"—and a fond regret exhibited itself in the face of the speaker.

"Well, Sir, you may as well confess. We know you, Sir. We know you. You are one of the chosen associates of that infamous Garibaldian plotter and assassin, whose hotel is the hot-bed of conspiracy and revolution. We know you. Do you dare to come here and deny it?"

"I did not come here; I was brought. I do not deny that you know me, though I haven't the pleasure of knowing you. But I do deny that I am the associate of conspirators."

"Are you not the American whom La Cica so particularly distinguished with her favor?"

"I have reason to believe that she was partial to me—somewhat."

"He confesses!" said the General. "You came from her to this place, communicating on the way with her emissaries."

"I communicated on the way with none but brigands among the mountains. If they were her emissaries I wish her joy of them. My means of communication," said the Senator, while a grim smile passed over his face, "was an iron crow-bar, and my remarks left some deep impression on them, I do believe."

"Tell me now—and tell me truly," said the General after a pause, in which he seemed trying to make out whether the Senator was joking or not. "To whom are you sent in this city?"

"To no one."

"Sir! I warn you that I will not be trifled with."

"I tell you," said the Senator, with no apparent excitement, "I tell you that I have come here to no one. What more can I say?"

"You must confess."

"I have nothing to confess."

"Sir! you have much to confess," cried the General, angrily, "and I swear to you I will wring it out of you. Beware how you trifle with my patience. If you wish to regain your liberty confess at once, and you may escape your just punishment. But if you refuse, then, by the immortal gods, I'll shut you up in a dungeon for ten years!"

"You will do no such thing."

"What!" roared the General. "Won't I?"

"You will not. On the contrary, you will have to make apologies for these insults."

"I!—Apologies! Insults!"

The General gnawed his mustache, and his eyes blazed in fury.

"You have arrested us on a false charge, based on some slanderous or stupid information of some of your infernal spies," said the Senator. "What right have you to pry into the private affairs of an American traveller? We have nothing to do with you."

"You are associated with conspirators. You are charged with treasonable correspondence with rebels. You countenanced revolution in Florence. You openly took part with Republicans. You are a notorious friend of La Cica. And you came here with the intention of fomenting treason in Venice!"

"Whoever told you that," replied the Senator, "told infernal lies—most infernal lies. I am no emissary of any party. I am a private traveller."

"Sir, we have correspondents in Florence on whom we can rely better than on you. They watched you."

"Then the best thing you can do is to dismiss those correspondents and get rogues who have half an idea."

"Sir, I tell you that they watched you well. You had better confess all. Your antecedents in Florence are known. You are in a position of imminent danger. I tell you—beware."

The General said this in an awful voice, which was meant to strike terror into the soul of his captive. The Senator looked back into his eyes with an expression of calm scorn. His form seemed to grow larger, and his eyes dilated as he spoke:

"Then you, General, I tell you—beware! Do you know who you've got hold of?—No conspirator; no infernal Italian bandit, or Dutch-man either; but an American citizen. Your Government has already tried the temper of Americans on one or two remarkable occasions. Don't try it on a third time, and don't try it on with me. Since you want to know who I am I'll tell you. I, Sir, am an American Senator. I take an active and prominent part in the government of that great and glorious country. I represent a constituency of several hundred thousand. You tell me to beware. I tell you—BEWARE! for, by the Eternal! if you don't let me go, I swear to you that you'll have to give me up at the cannon's mouth. I swear to you if you don't let me off by evening I won't go at all till I am delivered up with humble and ample apologies, both to us and to our country, whom you have insulted in our persons."

"Sir, you are bold!"

"Bold! Send for the American Consul of this city and see if he don't corroborate this. But you had better make haste, for if you subject me to further disgrace it will be the worse for your Government, and particularly for you, my friend. You'll have the town battered down about your ears. Don't get another nation down on you, and, above all, don't let that nation be the American. What I tell you is the solemn truth, and if you don't mind it you will know it some day to your sorrow."

Whatever the cause may have been the company present, including even the General, were impressed by the Senator's words. The announcement of his dignity; the venerable title of Senator; the mention of his "constituency," a word the more formidable from not being at all understood—all combined to fill them with respect and even awe.



So at his proposal to send for the American Consul the General gave orders to a messenger who went off at once in search of that functionary.



CHAPTER LII.

THE SENATOR STILL ENGAGED IN FACING DOWN THE AUSTRIAN.—THE AMERICAN CONSUL.—UNEXPECTED RE-APPEARANCE OF FORGOTTEN THINGS.—COLLAPSE OF THE COURT.

The American Consul soon made his appearance. Not having had any thing to do for months, the prospect of business gave wings to his feet. Moreover, he felt a very natural desire to help a countryman in trouble. Upon entering the hall he cast a rapid look around, and seemed surprised at so august a tribunal. For in the General's martial form he saw no less a person than the Austrian Commandant.

The Consul bowed and then looked at the prisoners. As his eye fell upon the Senator it lighted up, and his face assumed an expression of the most friendly interest. Evidently a recognition. The Austrian Commandant addressed the Consul directly in German.

"Do you know the prisoners?"

"I know one of them."

"He is here under a very heavy accusation. I have well-substantiated charges by which he is implicated in treason and conspiracy. He has been connected with Revolutionists of the worst stamp in Florence, and there is strong proof that he has come here to communicate with Revolutionists in this city."

"Who accuses him of this? Are they here?"

"No, but they have written from Florence warning me of his journey here."

"Does the prisoner confess?"

"Of course not. He denies. He requested me to send for you. I don't want to be unjust, so if you have any thing to say, say on."

"These charges are impossible."

"Impossible?"

"He is altogether a different man from what you suppose. He is an eminent member of the American Senate. Any charges made against one like him will have to be well substantiated; and any injury done to him will be dangerous in the highest degree. Unless you have undeniable proofs of his guilt it will be best to free him at once—or else—"

"Or else what?"

"Or else there will be very grave complications."

The Commandant looked doubtful. The others impassive. Buttons and Dick interested. The Senator calm. Again the Commandant turned to the Senator, his remarks being interpreted as before.

"How does it happen that you were so particularly intimate with all the Revolutionists in Florence, and an habitue of La Cica's salon? that your mission was well known throughout the city? That you publicly acknowledged the Florentine rebellion in a speech? that the people carried you home in triumph? and that immediately before leaving you received private instructions from La Cica?"

"To your questions," said the Senator, with unabated dignity, "I will reply in brief: First, I am a free and independent citizen of the great and glorious American Republic. If I associated with Revolutionists in Florence, I did so because I am accustomed to choose my own society, and not to recognize any law or any master that can forbid my doing so. I deny, however, that I was in any way connected with plots, rebellions, or conspiracies. Secondly, I was friendly with the Countess because I considered her a most remarkably fine woman, and because she showed a disposition to be friendly with me—a stranger in a strange land. Thirdly, I have no mission of any kind whatever. I am a traveller for self-improvement. I have no business political or commercial. So that my mission could not have been known. If people talked about me they talked nonsense. Fourthly, I confess I made a speech, but what of that? It's not the first time, by a long chalk. I don't know what you mean by 'acknowledging.' As a private citizen I congratulated them on their success, and would do so again. If a crowd calls on me for a speech, I'm thar! The people of Florence dragged me home in a carriage. Well, I don't know why they did so. I can't help it if people will take possession of me and pull me about. Fifthly, and lastly, I had an interview with the Countess, had I? Well, is it wrong for a man to bid good-bye to a friend? I ask you, what upon earth do you mean by such a charge as that? Do you take me for a puling infant?"

"On that occasion," said the Commandant, "she taught you some mysterious words which were to be repeated among the Revolutionists here."

"Never did any thing of the kind. That's a complete full-blown fiction."

"I have the very words."

"That's impossible. You've got hold of the wrong man I see."

"I will have them read," said the General, solemnly.

And he beckoned to the Interpreter. Whereupon the Interpreter gravely took out a formidable roll of papers from his breast, and opened it. Every gesture was made as though his hand was heavy with the weight of crushing proof. At last a paper was produced. The Interpreter took one look at the prisoner, then glanced triumphantly at the Consul, and said:

"It is a mysterious language with no apparent meaning, nor have I been able to find the key to it in any way. It is very skillfully made, for all the usual tests of cipher writing fail in this. The person who procured it did not get near enough till the latter part of the interview, so that he gained no explanation whatever from the conversation."

"Read," said the Commandant. The Senator waited, wonderingly. The Interpreter read:

"Ma ouillina sola ouda ste ensoce fremas dis ansit ansin assalef a oue lu affa lastinna belis."

Scarcely had the first words been uttered in the Italian voice of the reader than the Senator started as though a shot had struck him. His face flushed. Finally a broad grin spread itself over his countenance, and down his neck, and over his chest, and over his form, and into his boots, till at last his whole colossal frame shook with an earthquake of laughter.

The Commandant stared and looked uneasy, All looked at the Senator —all with amazement—the General, the Interpreter, the Officials, the Guards, Buttons, Dick, and the American Consul.

"Oh dear! Oh de-ar! Oh DEEE-AR!" cried the Senator, in the intervals of his outrageous peals of laughter. "OH!" and a new peal followed.

What did all this mean? Was he crazy? Had misfortunes turned his brain?

But at last the Senator, who was always remarkable for his self-control, recovered himself. He asked the Commandant if he might be permitted to explain.

"Certainly," said the Commandant, dolefully. He was afraid that the thing would take a ridiculous turn, and nothing is so terrible as that to an Austrian official.

"Will you allow me to look at the paper?" asked the Senator. "I will not injure it at all."

The Interpreter politely carried it to him as the Commandant nodded. The Senator beckoned to the Consul. They then walked up to the Commandant. All four looked at the paper.

"You see, gentlemen," said the Senator, drawing a lead pencil from his pocket, "the Florence correspondent has been too sharp. I can explain all this at once. I was with the Countess, and we got talking of poetry. Now, I don't know any more about poetry than a horse."

"Well?"

"Well, she insisted on my making a quotation. I had to give in. The only one I could think of was a line or two from Watts."

"Watts? Ah! I don't know him," said the Interpreter.

"He was a minister—a parson."

"Ah!"

"So I said it to her, and she repeated it. These friends of yours, General, have taken it down, but their spellin' is a little unusual," said the Senator, with a tremendous grin that threatened a new outburst.

"Look. Here is the true-key which this gentleman tried so hard to find."

And taking his pencil the Senator wrote under the strange words the true meaning:

"My willing soul would stay In such a frame as this, And sit and sing herself away To everlasting bliss."

The Interpreter saw it all. He looked profoundly foolish. The whole thing was clear. The Senator's innocence was plain. He turned to explain to the Commandant. The Consul's face exhibited a variety of expressions, over which a broad grimace finally predominated, like sunshine over an April sky. In a few words the whole was made plain to the Commandant. He looked annoyed, glared angrily at the Interpreter, tossed the papers on the floor, and rose to his feet.



"Give these gentlemen our apologies," said he to the Interpreter. "In times of trouble, when States have to be held subject to martial law, proceedings are abrupt. Their own good sense will, I trust, enable them to appreciate the difficulty of our position. They are at liberty."

At liberty! No sooner were the words spoken than the prisoners bowed and left, in company with the Consul, who eagerly shook hands with all three—particularly the Senator, who, as they were leaving, was heard to whisper something in which these words were audible:

"Wa'al, old hoss! The American eagle showed it claws, anyhow."



CHAPTER LIII.

A MYSTERIOUS FLIGHT.—DESPAIR OF BUTTONS.—PURSUIT.—HISTORIC GROUND, AND HISTORIC CITIES.

It was about seven o'clock in the evening when they reached their hotel. Every thing was as they had left it. Some trifles had occurred, such as a general overhaul of the baggage, in which the Doctor's pistol had again miraculously escaped seizure. Buttons went immediately to call on the Spaniards, but their apartment was closed. Supposing that they were out about the town, he returned to his friends.

During their memorable captivity they had eaten but little, and now nothing was more welcome than a dinner. So they ordered the very best that the hotel could supply, and made the American Consul stay. Buttons did not give himself up so completely as the rest to the hilarity of the occasion. Something was on his mind. So he took advantage of a conversation in which the Senator was giving the Consul an animated description of the fight with the brigands, and the pluck of his two "boys," and stole out of the room. Whereupon the Senator stopped and remarked—

"Hang these fellows that are in love!"

"Certainly," said Dick. "They often hang themselves, or feel like it."

"Of course Buttons is on his usual errand."

"Of course."

"It seems to me that his foreign travel has become nothing but one long chase after that gal. He is certainly most uncommon devoted."

Scarce had these words been spoken when the door was flung open, and Buttons made his appearance, much agitated.

"What's the matter?" cried Dick. "The Spaniards!" "Well?" "They're off!" "Off?" "Gone!" "Where?" "Away from Venice." "When?" "I don't know." "Why?" "I don't know."

"What sent them? It looks as though they were running away from you on purpose."

"They're off, at any rate!" cried Buttons. "I went to their room. It was open. The servants were fixing it up. I asked why. They said the Spaniards had left Venice early this morning. They did not know any thing more."

"Strange!"

"Strange, of course. It's so sudden. Their plans were laid out for a week in Venice."

"Perhaps they were frightened at our adventure."

Buttons sprung to the bell and pulled it vigorously. Then he rushed to the door and flung it open. Five or six waiters came tumbling in. They had all been listening at the key-hole.

"Where's the chief waiter?"

"Here," said that functionary, approaching.

"Come here. You may retire," said Buttons to the others. They went out reluctantly.

"Now, my friend," said he, putting some piastres in the hand of the chief waiter. "Think, and answer me right. Where are the Spaniards —a gentleman and two ladies—who came here with us?"

"They have left the city."

"When?"

"At six this morning, by the first train."

"Why did they leave?"

"A hint came from the Commandant."

"From him. Ah! What about?"

"Why—you know—your Excellencies were to waited on by a deputation."

"We were arrested. Well?"

"Well, these Spaniards were friends yours."

"Yes."

"That connection made them suspected."

"Diavolo!"

"Such is the melancholy fact. There was no cause strong enough to lead to their arrest. It would have been inconvenient. So the Commandant sent a message, immediately after your Excellency's lamentable arrest, to warn them—"

"What of?"

"That they had better leave the country at once."

"Yes, but that didn't force them to go."

"Ah, Signore! Do you not know what such a warning is? There is no refusal."

"And so they left."

"At six by the train."

"Where to?"

"Signore, they had their passports made out for Milan."

"Milan!"

"Certainly. It was necessary for them not only to leave Venice, but Venetia."

"Very well. When does the next train leave?"

"Not till to-morrow morning at six."

"You must call us then at five, for we are going. Here, take our passports and get them vised;" and having explained matters to the Senator, Buttons found no need of persuasion to induce them to quit the city, so the passports were handed over to the waiter.

So at six the next morning they went flying over the sea, over the lagoons, over the marshes, over the plains, away toward Lombardy.



They had to stop for a while at Verona, waiting to comply with "some formalities." They had time to walk about the town and see the Roman ruins and the fortifications. Of all these much might be said, if it were not to be found already in Guide-books, Letters of Correspondents, Books of Travel, Gazetteers, and Illustrated Newspapers. Our travellers saw enough of the mighty military works, in a brief survey, to make them thoroughly comprehend the Peace of Villafranca. In the neighborhood of Solferino they left the train to inspect the scene of battle. Only a month had passed since the terrific contest, and the traces remained visible on every side. The peasants had made two trenches of enormous size. In one of these the bodies of the Austrians had been buried, in the other those of the French and Italians. In one place there was a vast heap of arms, which had been gathered from off the field. There was no piece among them which was not bent or broken. All were of the best construction and latest pattern, but had seen their day. Shattered trees, battered walls, crumbling houses, deep ruts in the earth, appeared on every side to show where the battle had raged; yet already the grass, in its swift growth, had obliterated the chief marks of the tremendous conflict.

At length they arrived at Milan. The city presented a most imposing appearance. Its natural situation, its magnificent works of architecture, its stately arches and majestic avenues presented an appearance which was now heightened by the presence of victory. It was as though the entire population had given themselves up to rejoicing. The evil spirit had been cast out, and the house thoroughly swept and garnished. The streets were filled with gay multitudes; the avenues resounded with the thrilling strains of the Marseillaise, repeated everywhere; every window displayed the portrait of Napoleon, Victor Emanuel, or Garibaldi, and from every house-top flaunted the tri-color. The heavy weight imposed by the military rule—the iron hand, the cruelty, the bands of spies, the innumerable soldiers sent forth by Austria—had been lifted off, and in the first reaction of perfect liberty the whole population rushed into the wildest demonstrations of joy and gayety. The churches were all marked by the perpetual presence of the emblems of Holy Peace, and Heavenly Faith, and Immortal Hope. The sublime Cathedral, from all its marble population of sculptured saints and from all its thousands of pinnacles, sent up one constant song. Through the streets marched soldiers—regular, irregular, horse, foot, and dragoons; cannon thundered at intervals through every day; volunteer militia companies sprang up like butterflies to flash their gay uniforms in the sun.

It was not the season for theatres. La Scala had opened for a few nights when Napoleon and Victor Emanuel where here, but had closed again. Not so the smaller theatres. Less dignified, they could burst forth unrestrained. Especially the Day Theatres, places formed somewhat on the ancient model, with open roofs. In these the spectators can smoke. Here the performance begins at five or six and ends at dark. All the theatres on this season, day or night alike, burst forth into joy. The war was the universal subject. Cannon, fighting, soldiers, gunpowder, saltpetre, sulphur, fury, explosions, wounds, bombardments, grenadiers, artillery, drum, gun, trumpet, blunderbuss, and thunder! Just at that time the piece which was having the greatest run was THE VICTORY Of SOLFERINO!

Two theatres exhibited this piece with all the pomp and circumstance of glorious war. Another put out in a pantomime "The Battle of Malegnano!"

Another, "The Fight at Magenta!" But perhaps the most popular of all was "GARIBALDI IN VARESE, od I CACCIATORI DEGLI ALPI!"



CHAPTER LIV.

DICK MEETS AN OLD FRIEND.—THE EMOTIONAL NATURE OF THE ITALIAN. —THE SENATOR OVERCOME AND DUMBFOUNDED.

The day of their arrival at Milan was distinguished by a pleasing circumstance. Buttons found the Spaniards, and was happy. And by another circumstance, scarcely less pleasing, Dick found an old acquaintance.

On this wise:

Finding himself in Milan he suddenly called to mind an old friend with whom he had been intimate in Boston. He had been exiled from Italy on account of his connection with the movements of 1848. He had fled to America, and had taken with him barely enough to live on. For five years he had lived in Boston under the plain name of Hugh Airey. Then Dick met with him, and had been attracted by the polished manners, melancholy air, and high spirit of the unfortunate exile. In the course of time their acquaintance ripened into intimate friendship. Dick introduced him to all his friends, and did all in his power to make his life pleasant. From him he had learned Italian, and under his guidance formed a wide and deep acquaintance with Italian literature. In 1858 Mr. Airey decided to return to Italy and live in Turin till the return of better days. Before leaving he confided to Dick the fact that he belonged to one of the oldest families in Lombardy, and that he was the Count Ugo di Gonfiloniere. The exile bade Dick and all his friends good-bye and departed. Since then Dick had heard from him but once. The Count was happy, and hopeful of a speedy return of better days for his country. His hopes had been realized, as the world knows.



Dick had no difficulty in finding out where he lived, and went to call on him. It was a magnificent palace. Throngs of servants were around the entrance. Dick sent up his name, and was conducted by a servant to an ante-chamber. Scarcely had he finished a hasty survey of the apartment when hurried footsteps were heard. He turned. The Count came rushing into the room, flushed and trembling, and without a word threw himself into Dick's arms, embraced him, and kissed him. It was a trying moment for Dick. Nothing is so frightful to a man of the Anglo-Saxon race as to be hugged and kissed by a man. However, Dick, felt deeply touched at the emotion of his friend and his grateful remembrance of himself.

"This is a circumstance most unexpected!" cried the Count. "Why did you not write and tell me that you were coming, my dearest friend? I did not know that you were in Italy. But perhaps you wished to give me a surprise?" And then the Count asked after all the friends in America, for whom he still evinced the tenderest attachment.

On being questioned he related his own subsequent adventures. After leaving America he went at once to Turin. Though proscribed in Lombardy he was free in Piedmont. He managed to communicate secretly with his relatives in Milan, and lived comfortably. At length he became aware of the great movement on foot which ended in the Italian war. He had thrown himself altogether in the good cause, and, without being at all disheartened by his former misfortunes, he embarked energetically in the current of events. He was at once recognized by the Sardinian Government as a powerful recruit, and appointed to an important military command. Finally war was declared. The French came, the Count had taken a conspicuous part in the events of the war, had been present at every battle, and had been promoted for his gallant conduct. Fortunately he had not once been wounded. On the occupation of Milan by the Allies he had regained all his rights, titles, privileges, and estates. He was a happy man. His ten years of exile had given him a higher capacity for enjoyment. He looked forward to a life of honor and usefulness. He had found joy harder to endure than grief; the reunion with all his old friends and relations, the presence of all the familiar scenes of his native land had all well-nigh overcome him. Yet he assured Dick that no friend with whom he had met was more welcome to his sight than he, and the joy that he felt at seeing him had only been exceeded once in his life—that one time having been on the occasion of the entrance of the Allies into Milan.

And now that he was here, where was his luggage? Did he come without it? There was certainly only one place in the city where he could stop. He must remain nowhere else but here. Dick modestly excused himself. He was scarcely prepared. He was travelling in company with friends, and would hardly like to leave them. The Count looked reproachfully at him. Did he hesitate about that? Why, his friends also must come. He would have no refusal. They all must come. They would be as welcome as himself. He would go with Dick to his hotel in person and bring his friends there.

In a short time the Count and Dick had driven to the hotel, where the former pressed upon the Senator and Buttons an invitation to his house. They were not allowed to refuse, but were taken away, and before they fairly understood the unexpected occurrence they were all installed in magnificent apartments in the Palazzo Gonfaloniere.

Buttons's acquaintance with the language, literature, manners, and customs of Italy made him appreciate his advantages; the friendship of the Count prevented Dick from feeling otherwise than perfectly at home; and as for the Senator, if it had been possible for him to feel otherwise, his experience of high life at Florence would have enabled him to bear himself serenely here. His complete self-possession, his unfaltering gaze, his calm countenance, were never for a moment disturbed.

The Count had been long enough in America to appreciate a man of the stamp of the Senator; he therefore from the very first treated him with marked respect, which was heightened when Dick told him of the Senator's achievements during the past few weeks. The brilliant society which surrounded the Count was quite different from that which the Senator had found in Florence. The people were equally cultivated, but more serious. They had less excitability, but more deep feeling. Milan, indeed, had borne her burden far differently from Florence. Both hated the foreigner; but the latter could be gay, and smiling, and trifling even under her chains; this the former could never be. The thoughtful, earnest, and somewhat pensive Milanese was more to the Senator's taste than the brilliant and giddy Florentine. These, thought he, may well be a free people.

Moreover, the Senator visited the Grand Cathedral, and ascended to the summit. Arriving there his thoughts were not taken up by the innumerable statues of snow-white marble, or the countless pinnacles of exquisite sculpture that extended all around like a sacred forest filled with saints and angels, but rather to the scene that lay beyond.

There spread away a prospect which was superior in his eyes to any thing that he had ever seen before, nor had it ever entered his mind to conceive such a matchless scene. The wide plains of Lombardy, green, glorious, golden with the richest and most inexhaustible fertility; vast oceans of grain and rice, with islands of dark-green trees that bore untold wealth of all manner of fruit; white villas, little hamlets, close-packed villages, dotted the wide expanse, with the larger forms of many a populous town. He looked to the north and to the west. The plain spread away for many a league, till the purple mountains arose as a barrier, rising up till they touched the everlasting ice. He looked to the east and south. There the plains stretched away to the horizon in illimitable extent.

"What a country! All cleared too! Every acre! And the villages! Why, there are thousands if there is one! Dear! dear! dear! How can I have the heart to blow about New England or Boston after that there! Buttons, why don't somebody tell about all this to the folks at home and stop their everlasting bragging? But"—after a long pause—"I'll do it! I'll do it!—this very night. I'll write about it to our paper!"



CHAPTER LV.

IN WHICH BUTTONS WRITES A LETTER; AND IN WHICH THE CLUB LOSES AN IMPORTANT MEMBER.—SMALL BY DEGREES AND BEAUTIFULLY LESS.

But all things, however pleasant, must have an end, so their stay in Milan soon approached its termination.

Buttons and the Senator were both quite willing to leave. The departure of the Spaniards had taken away the charm of Milan. They had already returned to Spain, and had urged Buttons very strongly to accompany them. It cost him a great struggle to decline, but he did so from certain conscientious motives, and promised to do so after going to Paris. So there was an agonizing separation, and all that. At his room Buttons unbosomed himself to his friends.

"I'll begin at the beginning," said he, directing his remarks more particularly to the Senator.

"My father is a rich man, though you may not think I live very much like a rich man's son. The fact is, he is dreadfully afraid that I will turn out a spendthrift. So he gave me only a moderate sum on which to travel on through Europe. So far I have succeeded very well. Excuse my blushes while I make the sweet confession. The Senorita whom we all admire will, some of these days, I trust, exchange the musical name of Francia for the plainer one of Buttons."

The Senator smiled with mild and paternal approbation, and shook Buttons by the hand.

"It's all arranged," continued Buttons, with sweet confusion. "Now, under the circumstances, you might think it natural that I should go back with them to Spain."

"I should certainly. Why don't you?"

"For two reasons. The first is, I have barely enough tin left to take me to Paris."

At once both the Senator and Dick offered to make unlimited advances. Buttons made a deprecatory gesture.

"I know well that I could look to you for any help in any way. But that is not the reason why I don't go to Spain. I have money enough for my wants if I don't go there."

"What is the real reason, then?"

"Well, I thought that in an affair of this kind it would be just as well to get the Governor's concurrence, and so I thought I'd drop a line to him. I've just got the letter written, and I'll put it in the mail this evening."

"You have done right, my boy," said the Senator, paternally. "There are many excellent reasons for getting your father's consent in an affair like this."

"I don't mind reading you what I have written," said Buttons, "if you care about hearing it."

"Oh, if you have no objection, we should like to hear very much," said Dick.

Whereupon Buttons, taking a letter from his pocket, read as follows:

"DEAR FATHER,—I have endeavored to follow out your instructions and be as economical as possible.

"During my tour through Italy, have made the acquaintance of the senior member of the house of Francia, in Cadiz, a gentleman with whom you are acquainted. He was travelling with his two sisters. The younger one is very amiable. As I know you would like to see me settled I have requested her hand in marriage.

"As I wish to be married before my return I thought I would let you know. Of course in allying myself to a member of so wealthy a family I will need to do it in good style. Whatever you can send me will therefore be quite acceptable.

"Please reply immediately on receipt of this, addressing me at Paris as before.

"And very much oblige E. BUTTONS."

"Well," said the Senator, "that's a sensible letter. It's to the point. I'm glad to see that you are not so foolish as most lads in your situation. Why should not a man talk as wisely about a partnership of this kind as of any other? I do declare that these rhapsodies, this highblown, high-flown, sentimental twaddle is nauseating."

"You see, Dick," said Buttons, "I must write a letter which will have weight with the old gentleman. He likes the terse business style. I think that little hint about her fortune is well managed too. That's a great deal better than boring him with the state of my affections. Isn't it?"

"There's nothing like adapting your style to the disposition of the person you address," said Dick.

"Well," said the Senator, "you propose to start to-morrow, do you?"

"Yes," said Buttons.

"I'm agreed then I was just beginning to get used up myself. I'm an active man, and when I've squeezed all the juice out of a place I want to throw it away and go to another. What do you say, Dick? You are silent."

"Well, to tell the truth," said Dick, "I don't care about leaving just yet. Gonfaloniere expects me to stay longer, and he would feel hurt if I hurried off, I am very sorry that you are both going. It would be capital if you could only wait here a month or so."

"A month!" cried Buttons. "I couldn't stand it another day. Will nothing induce you to come? What can we do without you?"

"What can I do without you?" said Dick, with some emotion.

"Well, Dick," said the Senator, "I'm really pained. I feel something like a sense of bereavement at the very idea. I thought, of course, we would keep together till our feet touched the sacred soil once more. But Heaven seems to have ordained it otherwise. I felt bad when Figgs and the Doctor left us at Florence, but now I feel worse by a long chalk. Can't you manage to come along nohow?"

"No," said Dick. "I really can not. I really must stay."

"What! must!"

"Yes, must!"

The Senator sighed.



CHAPTER LVI.

THE FAITHFUL ONE!—DARTS, DISTRACTION, LOVE'S VOWS, OVERPOWERING SCENE AT THE MEETING OF TWO FOND ONES.—COMPLETE BREAK-DOWN OF THE HISTORIAN.

About a month after the departure of the Senator and Buttons from Milan, Dick reappeared upon the scene at Rome, in front of the little church which had borne so prominent a part in his fortunes; true to his love, to his hopes, to his promises, with undiminished ardor and unabated resolution. He found the Padre Liguori there, who at once took him to his room in a building adjoining the church.

"Welcome!" said he, in a tone of the deepest pleasure. "Welcome! It has been more than a passing fancy, then."

"It is the only real purpose of my life, I assure you."

"I must believe you," said Liguori, pressing his hand once more.

"And now, where is Pepita?"

"She is in Rome."

"May I see her at once?"

"How at once?"

"Well, to-day."

"No, not to-day. Her brother wishes to see you first. I must go and let them both know that you are here. But she is well and has been so."

Dick looked relieved. After some conversation Liguori told Dick to return in an hour, and he could see the Count. After waiting most impatiently Dick came back again in an hour. On entering he found Luigi. He was dressed as a gentleman this time. He was a strongly knit, well-made man of about thirty, with strikingly handsome and aristocratic features.

"Let me make my peace with you at once," said he, with the utmost courtesy. "You are a brave man, and must be generous. I have done you wrongs for which I shall never forgive myself," and taking Dick's outstretched hand, he pressed it heartily.

"Say nothing about it, I beg," said Dick; "you were justified in what you did, though you may have been a little hasty."

"Had I not been blinded by passion I would have been incapable of such a piece of cowardice. But I have had much to endure, and I was always afraid about her."

With the utmost frankness the two men received each other's explanations, and the greatest cordiality arose at once. Dick insisted on Luigi's taking dinner with him, and Luigi, laughingly declaring that it would be a sign of peace to eat bread and salt together, went with Dick to his hotel.

As they entered Dick's apartments Gonfaloniere was lounging near the window. He had accompanied Dick to Rome. He started at the sight of Luigi.

"God in Heaven!" he cried, bounding to his feet.

"Ugo!" exclaimed the other.

"Luigi!"

And the two men, in true Italian fashion, sprang into one another's arms.

"And is my best friend, and oldest friend, the brother of your betrothed?" asked Gonfaloniere of Dick.

But Dick only nodded. He was quite mystified by all this. An explanation, however, was soon made. The two had been educated together, and had fought side by side in the great movements of '48, under Garibaldi, and in Lombardy.

For full an hour these two friends asked one another a torrent of questions. Luigi asked Gonfaloniere about his exile in America; whereupon the other described that exile in glowing terms—how he landed in Boston, how Dick, then little more than a lad, became acquainted with him, and how true a friend he had been in his misery. The animated words of Gonfaloniere produced a striking effect. Luigi swore eternal friendship with Dick, and finally declared that he must come and see Pepita that very day.

So, leaving Gonfaloniere with the promise of seeing him again, Luigi walked with Dick out to the place where he lived. The reason why he had not wanted him to see Pepita that day was because he was ashamed of their lodgings. But that had passed, and as he understood Dick better he saw there was no reason for such shame. It was a house within a few rods of the church.

Dick's heart throbbed violently as he entered the door after Luigi and ascended the steps inside the court-yard. Luigi pointed to a door and drew back.



Dick knocked.

The door opened.

"Pepita!"

***

To describe such a meeting is simply out of the question.

"I knew you would come," said she, after about one solid hour, in which not a single intelligible word was uttered.

"And for you! Oh, Pepita!"

"You do not think now that I was cruel?" and a warm flush overspread the lovely face of the young girl.

"Cruel!" (and Dick makes her see that he positively does not think so).

"I could not do otherwise."

"I love you too well to doubt it."

"My brother hated you so. It would have been impossible. And I could not wound his feelings."

"He's a splendid fellow, and you were right."

"Padre Liguori showed him what you were, and I tried to explain a little," added Pepita, shyly.

"Heaven bless Padre Liguori! As for you—you—"

"Don't."

"Well, your brother understands me at last. He knows that I love you so well that I would die for you."

Tears came into Pepita's eyes as the sudden recollection arose of Dick's misadventure on the road.

***

"Do you remember," asked Dick, softly, after about three hours and twenty minutes—"do you remember how I once wished that I was walking with you on a road that would go on forever?"

"Yes."

"Well, we're on that track now."

[The Historian of these adventures feels most keenly his utter inadequacy to the requirements of this scene. Need he say that the above description is a complete fiasco? Reader, your imagination, if you please.]



CHAPTER LVII.

THE DODGE CLUB IN PARIS ONCE MORE.—BUTTONS'S "JOLLY GOOD HEALTH."

Not very long after the events alluded to in the last chapter a brilliant dinner was given in Paris at the "Hotel de Lille et d'Albion." On the arrival of the Senator and Buttons at Paris they had found Mr. Figgs and the Doctor without any trouble. The meeting was a rapturous one. The Dodge Club was again an entity, although an important member was not there. On this occasion the one who gave the dinner was BUTTONS!



All the delicacies of the season. In fact, a banquet. Mr. Figgs shone resplendently. If a factory was the sphere of the Senator, a supper-table was the place for Mr. Figgs. The others felt that they had never before known fully all the depth of feeling, of fancy, and of sentiment that lurked under that placid, smooth, and rosy exterior. The Doctor was epigrammatic; the Senator sententious; Buttons uproarious.

Dick's health was drunk in bumpers with all the honors:

"For he's a jolly good fe-e-e-e-e-e-llow! For he's a jolly good fe-e-e-e-e-e-llow!! For he's a jolly good FE-E-E-E-E-E-LLOW!!! Which nobody can deny!"

All this time Buttons was more joyous, more radiant, and altogether more extravagant than usual. The others asked themselves, "Why?" In the course of the evening it became known. Taking advantage of a short pause in the conversation he communicated the startling fact that he had that day received a letter from his father.

"Shall I read it?"

"AYE!!!" unanimously, in tones of thunder.

Buttons opened it and read:

DEAR SON.—Your esteemed favor, 15th ult., I have recd.

"I beg leave hereby to express my concurrence with your design.

"My connection with the house of Francia has been of the most satisfactory kind. I have no doubt that yours will be equally so.

"I inclose you draft on Mess. Dupont Geraud, et Cie of Paris, for $5000—say five thousand dollars—rect of which please acknowledge. If this sum is insufficient you are at liberty to draw for what may be required.

"I remain, HIRAM BUTTONS."

Thunders of applause arose as Buttons folded the letter.

A speech from the Senator proposed health of Buttons Senior.

Another from the Doctor.

Another from Mr. Figgs.

Acknowledgment by Buttons.

Announcement by Buttons of immediate departure for Cadiz.

Wild cheers! Buttons's jolly good health!

"For he's a jolly good fe-e-e-e-e-e-llow! For he's a jolly good fe-e-e-e-f-e-llow!! For he's a jolly good FE-E-E-E-E-E-LLOW!!! Which nobody can deny!"

THE END.