turn; but, observing that Pesca was rapturously kissing my, mother’s hands, looked serious, and resumed her seat. “If the familiar little man treats my mother in that way, how will he treat ME?” Faces sometimes tell truth; and that was unquestionably the thought in Sarah’s mind, as she sat down again.
Although I myself was gratefully sensible of the kindness of Pesca’s motives, my spirits were hardly so much elevated as they ought to have been by the prospect of future employment now placed before
it on his knees, and excitedly addressed his small congregation of three from an impromptu pulpit.
“Now, my good dears,” began Pesca (who always said “good dears” when he meant “worthy friends”), “listen to me. The time has come—I recite my good news—I speak at last.”
“Hear, hear!” said my mother,