He had just been rejected at the
house of our nearest neighbor, and was standing in a state of dubious
perplexity in the street. His looks quite justified my mother's
suspicions. He was an olive-complexioned, black-bearded Italian, with
an eye like a live coal, such a face as perchance looks out on the
traveller in the passes of the Abruzzi,--one of those bandit visages
which Salvator has painted. With some difficulty I gave him to
understand my errand, when he overwhelmed me with thanks, and joyfully
followed me back. He took his seat with us at the supper-table; and,
when we were all gathered around the hearth that cold autumnal evening,
he told us, partly by words and, partly by gestures, the story of his
life and misfortunes, amused us with descriptions of the grape-
gatherings and festivals of his sunny clime, edified my mother with a
recipe for making bread of chestnuts; and in the morning, when, after
breakfast, his dark, sullen face lighted up and his fierce eye moistened
with grateful emotion as in his own silvery Tuscan accent he poured out
his thanks, we marvelled at the fears which had so nearly closed our
door against him; and, as he departed, we all felt that he had left with
us the blessing of the poor.
It was not often that, as in the above instance, my mother's prudence
got the better of her charity.
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