IT was scarcely a reality to Jean, to Hannah, or to Giusippe himself when Uncle Bob actually set for France with the young Venetian as a member of the party. Yet every one was pleased: Hannah because she would not now need her foreign dictionaries; Jean because it was jolly to have a companion her own age; and Giusippe because he felt that at last he had friends who were to guide for him the future which had so darkly and so before him. Not a full week of the trip to Paris had passed before Mr. Cabot declared that how he had got on without that boy he did not understand. Giusippe had such a wonderful way of making himself useful; not only did he see what needed to be done, but he was quick to do it.
"His enthusiasm alone is worth the money I am paying for his railroad fares and hotel bills!" ejaculated Uncle Bob to Hannah.
There certainly never was such a boy to take in everything around him, and to remember what he saw. With mind alert for all that was to be learned he tagged along at Mr. Cabot's heels drinking in and storing away every of history and of beauty which came across his path. And in Paris he found much of both. The Invalides with the tomb of Napoleon; Notre with its odd ; the Arc de Triomphe; the Bois; and the Champs-Elysees shaded by pink horse-chestnut trees—all these sights were new and marvelous to the Italian lad. But it was Versailles with its gardens that charmed him and Jean most.
The travelers arrived there on a Sunday, when the fountains were playing, flowers blooming everywhere, and a gay crowd of sightseers the walks. It was like fairy-land. The great fountain sent into the air a sheet of spray which was quickly caught up by the sunlight and transformed into a rainbow. Within the palace, amid old of battles and hunting scenes, and surrounded by paintings and statues, were the famous early French mirrors of which Giusippe had previously spoken.
Mr. Cabot them out, half playfully, half seriously.
"Perhaps on further consideration I will leave them," returned the boy, falling in with the spirit of the elder man's mood. "They seem to fit the spaces, and I doubt if even our Venetian mirrors could look better here."
"I think it might be just as well," answered Mr. Cabot. "Besides, you must remember that those mirrors were not the only sort of glass the French made. There were many workers at Provençe as early as 1520, and later much cast glass instead of that which is blown came from France. In fact, up to a hundred years ago the French held the plate glass monopoly. Then England took up glass-making and cut into the French market—the same old story of stealing the trade, you see. In addition to other varieties of glass-making some of the finest and most interesting of the old stained glass was made by the French people, and can now be seen in the church of St. Denis, just out of Paris, and at Sainte Chapelle which is within the city itself. Fortunately the glass at St. Denis escaped the fury of the French revolutionists, as it might not have done had it not been at a little distance from Paris. There is also glass of much the same sort at Poitiers, Bourges, and Rheims. Amiens, too, has wonderful glass windows. I hope before we leave for home we shall have a peep at some if not all of these."
"Isn't much beautiful French glass now made at Nancy, Mr. Cabot?" Giusippe inquired.
"Yes, some of the finest comes from there."
"But didn't any other people beside the Venetians and the French make glass, Uncle Bob?" asked Jean, much interested.
"Oh, yes. Almost every European nation has tried its hand at glass-making. It is curious, too, to notice how each differs from the others. The Bohemians, for instance, were famous glass-makers, and their work, which primarily imitated that of the Venetians, is known the world over."
"What sort of glass is it? Could I tell it if I should see it?"
"Well, for one thing they make beautiful wine glasses and , having stems of enclosed white and colored enamel tubes twisted together with glass, which look as if they had delicate threads of color running through them. Then the Bohemians and the Austrians make many great beakers or drinking glasses, steins, and bowls with coats of arms upon them in gold or in colored enamel."
"Oh, I have seen things like that," Jean replied.
"Yes, we have some of those goblets at home in the dining-room. They are very rich and handsome. Beside these varieties the Bohemians have of late revived the making of old white glass with colored enamel figures on it. But glass is one of the kinds for which Bohemia is chiefly . Even very glass engravers can be had there for little money. They cut fine, delicate designs upon the glass with a . Some of this is white, but much of it is of deep red or blue with the pattern engraved on it in white. Such glass is made in two layers, the outer one being cut away so to leave the design upon the surface ."
"Wasn't it the Bohemians who invented cut glass?" Giusippe asked.
"No. Sometimes people say so, but this is not true. The fact is that there chanced to be a glass cutter so skilful that he was appointed to Rudolph the Second; he had a workshop at Prague, but though he did some very wonderful glass cutting, which gained him much fame, he did not invent the art. It was, by the way, one of his workmen who later migrated to Nuremburg and carried the secret of glass-cutting to Germany."
"Isn't it queer how one country learned of another?" reflected Jean.
"Yes, and it is especially interesting when we see how hard each tried not to teach his neighbor anything. There always was somebody, just as there always is now, who could not keep still and went and told," Mr. Cabot said. "And while we are speaking of the different kinds of glass we must not forget to mention the dark red glass perfected in 1680 by Kunckel, the director of the Potsdam glass works, for it is a very ingenious invention. The deep color is obtained by putting a thin layer of gold between the white glass and the coating of red."
"What else did the Germans make?" Giusippe.
"Well, the Germans, like the other nations, turned out glass which was suggestive of their people. And that, by the by, is a fact you must notice when seeing the work of so many different countries. Observe how the art of each reflects the characteristics of those who made it. Italy gave us fragile, dainty glass famous for its airy beauty and ; Germany, on the other hand, fashions a far more massive, rough, and heavier product—large , steins and goblets, some of which are even clumsy; all are substantial and useful, however, and have the big cordial spirit of fellowship so characteristic of the German people. These glasses are decorated in large flat designs less choice, perhaps, than are the Bohemian. The shape of the German goblets and drinking glasses differs, too, from those made in Italy. They are less , less dainty. Instead you will find throughout Germany tall , tankards, and steins with massive eagles or colored coats of arms; often, moreover, both the Bohemians and the Germans use designs showing processions of soldiers, battle scenes, or charges such as would appeal to nations whose military life has long been one of the leading interests of their people."
"Tell me, Mr. Cabot," inquired Giusippe eagerly, "did you ever see one of the German puzzle cups?"
"Yes, several of them. In the British Museum there are several of the windmill variety."
"What is a puzzle cup, Uncle Bob?" demanded Jean.
"Why, a puzzle or cup, as they are sometimes called, was an ingenious invention of the Germans during their early days of glass-making. The kind I speak of is a large which has on top a small silver windmill. The wager was to set the fans , turn the glass right side up, and then fill and drain it before the mill stopped turning. Such were very popular in those olden days and are interesting as of a mediæval and far-away period in history."
So intently had Mr. Cabot and the others been talking that they had stopped in the center of the room and it was while they were there that a party of tourists entered from the hallway. Foremost among them was an American girl who carried in her hand a much worn Baedeker. As her eye swept over the tapestries covering the walls her glance fell upon Giusippe.
Instantly she started and with parted lips stepped forward; then she paused.
"It cannot be!" Mr. Cabot heard her .
At the same moment, however, Giusippe had seen her.
"The beautiful señorita!" he cried. "My lady of Venice!"
He was beside her in an instant.
"Giusippe! Giusippe!" exclaimed the girl. "Can it really be you?"
"Yes, yes, señorita! It is I. Ah, that I should see you again! What a joy it is. Surely four or five years must have passed since first you came to paint in Venice."
" that, my little Giusippe. It is five years this June. You have a good memory."
"How could I forget you, señorita; and the pictures, and your kindness! But I have left Venice, you see. Yes. Even now I am on my way to America."
"To America? Oh, Giusippe, Giusippe! And that is why you have discarded your faded blouse, and the red tie which you wore knotted round your throat. ! I am almost sorry. And yet you look very nice," she added . "But to leave Venice!"
"It is best," Giusippe explained gently. "I have my way to make, and I can do it better in your country, my señorita."
"Perhaps. Still, I am sorry to have you leave your home. It is like taking sea shells away from the sands of the shore."
"And yet you would want me to be a man and succeed in life. Think how you yourself worked for success."
"I know. And it was you who brought it to me, Giusippe. The portrait I painted of you was exhibited in America and when I later sold it to an art there it brought me a little fortune; but the fame it brought was best of all." The girl put her hand softly on the lad's shoulder.
"Oh, señorita, how glad I am!"
"I had a feeling that you would bring me luck the morning when I first saw you in the square near St. Mark's. Do you remember? And how you stood watching me paint? Do you recall how we got to talking and how I asked if I might do the portrait of you? You laughed when I suggested it! And then you came to the hotel evenings when you were free, and I in the picture. It seems but yesterday. In the meantime you entertained me by telling me of Venice and its history. What a little fellow you were to know so much!" The girl smiled down at him. "And now let me hear of yourself. What of your parents?"
"Alas, señorita, they have died. I am now quite alone in the world. It is for that that I felt I must leave Venice. It is sad to be alone, señorita."
"So it is, Giusippe. No one knows that better than I." she slipped a hand into the small Venetian's. "But I must not take you from your friends. See, we have kept them waiting a long time."
"I want you to meet them, señorita. They are from your country, and they have been kind to me."
"Then surely I must meet them."
With a shy gesture the boy led her forward.
"Miss Cartright is from New York, Mr. Cabot," said Giusippe simply. "Long ago when I was a little lad I knew her in Venice, and she was good to me and to my parents."
"It was five years ago," added Miss Cartright. "I went there to paint."
"And little Giusippe, perhaps, made your stay as as he has made ours," Mr. Cabot said.
"Yes. I was all by myself, and knew no one in Venice. Furthermore, I only a word or two of Italian. Giusippe was a great comfort. He kept me from being lonesome."
"And you are now staying in Paris?" questioned Mr. Cabot.
"Yes, I have been here with friends studying for nearly a year; but I am soon to return home. And now, before I leave you, I want to hear all about Giusippe's plans. What is he to do?"
Little by little the story was told. Mr. Cabot began it and continued it until Giusippe, who thought him too modest, finished the tale.
"You see, señorita, Mr. Cabot, Miss Jean, and good Hannah will not themselves tell you how kind they have been, so I myself must tell it," said the boy. "And now I go with them to find a position in America that by hard work I may some time be able to repay them for their goodness to me."
Miss Cartright nodded thoughtfully.
At last she said:
"If you should come to New York I want to see you, Giusippe. There might be something I could do to help you. Anyway, I should want to have a glimpse of you. And if you do not come and Mr. Cabot does, perhaps, since he knows how fond of you I am and how much I am interested in your welfare, he will come and tell me how you are getting on."
She drew from her purse a card which she handed to the lad.
"Perhaps I'd better take it, Giusippe," Mr. Cabot said in a low tone. "It might get lost."
Then there was a confusion of farewells, and the girl rejoined her friends, who had gone through into the next room.
It was not until she was well out of ear-shot that any one spoke. Then Jean, who had been silent throughout the entire interview, exclaimed:
"Oh, isn't she beautiful! Isn't she the very loveliest lady you ever saw, Giusippe?"
And Giusippe, answering in voluble English mixed with Italian, not only the fairness but the goodness of his goddess.
Even Hannah agreed that the American girl was charming, but regretted that she had not come from Boston instead of New York.
Uncle Bob alone was silent. Turning the white card in his fingers he stood absently looking at the door through which Miss Ethel Cartright had passed.