lads of the town do allow! For all the youth of the town knows Rosina who sits all day in the portico of the Palazzo Spinola, via Carlo Felice! It is not for nothing that she has that tall and massive figure, those heavy coils of bright, black hair with the broad waves, that smooth skin with the faint fresh colour, those even rows of white teeth that appear so often when the merry smile parts her rosy lips! She knows how to use all the fair gifts of nature, and best of all how to make use of two saucy black eyes in the trade which she plies daily so well-for who sells so many flowers as Rosina? Watch her now at work. Her striking person sits framed in an old gateway, round whose margin a graceful design of fruits and flowers in low relief-sad, neglected memory of days long fled-lies yellow upon yellow marble. Above her head, over the palace portal, another basrelief, black with age, serves her for canopy; but this one is of fighting men and horses, and passionate of expression. Beneath her feet, a black and white pavement stretches back into the gloom of the court, that finishes in a scantly grass-grown yard whose almond trees will not be rosy with blossom till the last of Lent. And the background is varied by the flowering plants and shrubs of Rosina's stock in pots, while away in the dimness, the soiled staircase—of marble, like everything else architectural-winds up to the first, and then higher

So she sits, with flowers close around her-red and yellow tulips, festive-looking camellias-to set off the strongly-coloured portrait of herself; and as she sits she picks the heads of blossoms from baskets at her feet.

and higher to the fifth floor of Palazzo Spinola. So she sits-with flowers close around her, red and yellow tulips, festive-looking camellias, to set off the strongly-coloured portrait of herself, and as she sits she picks the heads of blossoms from baskets at her feet, to open and bend the poor petals of them at her will, and to wire them for her bouquets. See one with pink carnations in a cross on a field of white! It is as large as a small-sized table and quite even in its flatness-it is for the Church of San Luca. And here another, smaller and choicer of flowers, but scarce less stiff in appearance; it is white with violets around, and has been ordered by the Marchesa Pallavicini. Rosina is weaving more posies as she converses in loud tones with the old woman behind and glances up now and then to the street's opposite side where wayfarers grow hourly thicker on the pavement and where, in another portico, old but not as beautiful as her own, an aged man has already begun to roast chestnuts. There is a fiorista, maker of false flowers, on the firstfloor of the opposite house-she has nothing picturesque to show as our fioraja has; but, alas, modern Italy thinks far more of la Signora Raffo's trade than it does of our Rosina's! She herself is of the same opinion for the matter of that, and no one can praise a perfect flower of hers so much to her mind as by saying it is like a false one.

'To-night is the ball of la Marchesa Del Mele. I sell all that I have in flowers before twelve o'clock, you will see,' calls Rosina in her loud brave voice to the porter's wife who sweeps the staircase behind; 'gracious! your honour did make me jump,' adds she quickly to the polished and perfumed signore who now darkens the sunlight in the portico. 'Indeed!' laughs the young

man. 'No, no, you don't make me believe I catch you unawares, bella-you, who have eyes at the back of your head as sharp as those two bright ones in front! Well, well,' as Rosina laughs to show her pearly teeth, 'we all know you! But now give me a flower-one for myself -a knot of violets, emblems of thine own fair modesty ;' il Marchese del D-(for it is he) laughs as he says this, looking at Rosina. Shame!' remonstrates the damsel, bending over her flowers to choose out the mazzetto di viole, but the blush does not rise to her smooth cheek, and she only says, presenting the flowers, 'Il signor marchese will buy something for his lady of to-night?' 'Surely, make me a thing of taste, all white with violets, and we will agree to-morrow for the price. With pretty girls one makes no bargain!' And the marchese goes, only to leave the field for other gallant butterflies and purchasers who all agree that 'with pretty girls one makes no bargain.' Truly, Rosina's free, fair face is worth many soldi to her purse! The day grows—it is