is not to be got by a strict face outside the church doors.

It is Sunday morning, and Frà Giuseppe has just sung mass and delivered a scathing discourse in broad Genoese dialect to the somewhat empty benches of a nine o'clock congregation. He comes out of the sacristy now, having doffed his soutane, to keep only the kneebreeches and stockings with steel-buckled shoes for a finish, the long black coat and three-cornered hat of etiquette. He crosses the piazza, which is crowded with peasants, male and female, not all of whom have been in church, except for a moment at the Elevation. A group of lads and maidens turn towards him; none of them are very respectful in manner, but Frà Giuseppe takes no offence. Though his person were held in ever such veneration--even as the Prevosto's ownthough his voice be listened to with some amount of awe, as it is at the confessional, though, on holy ground, his counsels and upbraidings be sometimes regarded, none knows better than the Cappellano himself what a mere name is any priest's power outside of his office.

A plump, hardy-looking girl of some twenty-five years accosts him now with rough raillery. She has made a bet with some of the village swains on a matter regarding the under-priest, and at his answer the group

around burst into loudest laughter. But even this is not enough to discomfit Frà Giuseppe; he has seen the joke and retaliates smartly, neither fear nor prudery hindering.

Another damsel appeals to him for succour against the too forward advances of a stalwart old farmer, and something of a romp ensues. Broad jests and plain words are spoken, but though a spade be called a spade with little ado, Frà Giuseppe offers no reproof. His own education has not aimed at making him peculiarly sensitive to outward grossness of speech, and that is generally the worst feature about this frank and merry people. Who that is Italian, by birth and by nature, could have grown to be thus susceptible? A country priest, at all events, is not, and, as a rule, he gets on best by descending-if such a word be the fit one-to the work and the interests of the peasants about him, happy enough in his own way, and careless of any great show of respect.

Now he joins another party, and this time the group is one of old and seasoned men, whose interests are wrapped up in the crops and the coming fair. Hear him, as with avidity he discusses the country's prospects, or reconnoitres cautiously, that he may know the better how to buy and to sell with advantage on Monday next!

Here is no moonstruck priest, but a man of the world

-poor, parsimonious, and prudent. Poor, but not always stingy, not always grasping, because he, too-though pinched and careworn far more than the greater number of his people, who have their own lands and crops he too has the proverbial buon cuore of the Italians.

'Eh, Teresa,' he calls now to an old woman whom, as he turns his steps back to the little cottage, he meets coming down the path, a basket of eggs and vegetables on her head. Hast brought my portion at last? And thou hast made me wait for it!' 'It is too true, Signor Cappellano,' replies the poor soul. 'Your excellence must excuse. It has been a bad time, and I have not had the things to bring, though, the Virgin knows, the will to bring them!' 'Well, well, it signifies not. Come now to the kitchen, and you shall eat a good mouthful of minestra with Ninetta and myself.'

The little footpath leads down the meadow to the house with the thatched roof, where Michaelmas daisies grow to the front. There are no glass windows, there is only one chimney, the hearth is in the middle of the floor: it is just like a peasant's hut. Ninetta has the minestra ready; its savoury perfume pervades the kitchen, and she stands with the great pot tipped up to pour it out, blowing away the steam from her face meanwhile. She is a merry-eyed, wrinkled old lady of considerable