lovely face, he came nearer, and at her bidding told his story. It was a
common one: Ill-health, a vagabond son, his earnings all gone, no work,
and finally beggary.

"And have you no one to take care of you? Where do you live?"

"In that old shed, madam," he answered, pointing to a tumbled down cabin
once used as a cobbler's shop. "And I have with me my little girl, my
grandchild."

"A little girl in that place? Where is she? How do you keep her?"

"Ah, madam, she makes flowers--her mother taught her--and earns a few
pennies now and then. She sings, too, madam," he added with pride.

"Sings?" eagerly echoed the signora. "Fetch her here; I want to see
her."

"She has gone away to the woods to gather evergreens. To-morrow is
Christmas Day."

"Yes, yes, I remember! And how do you celebrate the day?" added the
lady.

"In feasting and rejoicing," said the duenna, before the old man could
answer.

"And the poor? I have read some very pretty stories about the poor in
your cities on Christmas Day."