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Updated: June 25, 2025
I could never believe Felicina was Paolo's child. She was an unprepossessing little girl, affected, cold, selfish, foolish. Maria and Paolo, with real Italian greatness, were warm and natural towards the child in her. But they did not love her in their very souls, she was the fruit of ash to them.
"A miracle?" repeated her husband, with a strange expression. "Who knows? Perhaps!" At that moment Gianbattista and Lucia entered through the open door, and stood together watching the scene without understanding what was passing. The young girl recognised the crucifix at once. She supposed that her father did not realise Paolo's condition, and was merely showing the masterpiece to her mother.
After some further badinage, Mrs. Thornton drew a letter from her pocket. "Here," said she, gravely, "is Paolo's letter. Read it, and tell me what you think of it." Despard took the letter and began to read, while Mrs. Thornton, sitting opposite to him, watched his face. The letter was in Italian, and was accompanied by a large and closely- written manuscript of many pages.
In the warm comfort of Paolo's hand the bird had forgotten his fear, and his little heart had ceased to thump as he reflected this must be a human, and his mother had always taught him that "humans" were kind to birds in St. Mark's Square.
And if it belong to his Holiness to judge which laws shall be revoked and what may be legislated to replace the old laws, ultimately but one power should everywhere reign and that an ecclesiastical power. The matter is simple." Fra Paolo's searching gaze noted the flush of feeling in the face of his friend, which was his only response.
He had read the journal in the mean time. "So he is coming back?" said he. "Yes." "And with this marvelous girl?" "Yes." "She seems to me like a spirit." "And to me." "Paolo's own nature is so lofty and so spiritual that one like her is intelligible to him. Happy is it for her that he found her." "Paolo is more spiritual than human. He has no materialism. He is spiritual.
But as his master advanced towards convalescence and the doctor assured him that he was going in all probability to get well, Paolo's face began to recover something of its old look and expression, and once more his pockets filled themselves with comfits for his little circle of worshipping three and four year old followers. "How is Mr. Kirkwood?" was the question with which he was always greeted.
He was under the influence of the most violent emotion, and his face betrayed something of what he felt. The idea of Paolo's death had played a tremendous part in his thoughts during the whole day, and he had firmly believed that he had got rid of that idea, and was to realise in meeting his brother that it had all been a dream. The news he now heard filled him with horror.
This was followed, a year later, by a performance of Cefalo, one of the oldest of Italian dramas, a pastoral play composed by Niccolo da Correggio, chiefly taken from Ovid's "Metamorphoses," and which is said to have suggested the subjects of Correggio's famous frescoes in the Abbess of San Paolo's parlour at Parma.
Those were his off days, when he put the needle away and foraged with the other children, dragging old beams and carrying burdens far beyond his years. The truant officer never found his way to Paolo's tenement to discover that he could neither read nor write, and, what was more, would probably never learn.
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