Mr. Alfred again spoke of Italy， and of the glorious colors in Italian scenery; the purple hills， the deep blue of the Mediterranean， the azure of southern skies， whose brightness and glory could only be surpassed in the north by the deep-blue eyes of a maiden; and he said this with a peculiar intonation; but she who should have understood his meaning looked quite unconscious of it， which also was charming.
“Beautiful Italy!” sighed some of the guests.
“Oh， to travel there!” exclaimed others.
“Charming! Charming!” echoed from every voice.
“I may perhaps win a hundred thousand dollars in the lottery，” said the naval officer's widow; “and if I do， we will travel—I and my daughter; and you， Mr. Alfred， must be our guide. We can all three travel together， with one or two more of our good friends.” And she nodded in such a friendly way at the company， that each imagined himself to be the favored person who was to accompany them to Italy. “Yes， we must go，” she continued; “but not to those parts where there are robbers. We will keep to Rome. In the public roads one is always safe.”
The daughter sighed very gently; and how much there may be in a sigh， or attributed to it! The young man attributed a great deal of meaning to this sigh. Those deep-blue eyes， which had been lit up this evening in honor of him， must conceal treasures， treasures of heart and mind， richer than all the glories of Rome; and so when he left the party that night， he had lost it completely to the young lady. The house of the naval officer's widow was the one most constantly visited by Mr. Alfred， the sculptor. It was soon understood that his visits were not intended for that lady， though they were the persons who kept up the conversation. He came for the sake of the daughter. They called her Kala. Her name was really Karen Malena， and these two names had been contracted into the one name Kala. She was really beautiful; but some said she was rather dull， and slept late of a morning.
“She has been accustomed to that，” her mother said. “She is a beauty， and they are always easily tired. She does sleep rather late; but that makes her eyes so clear.”
What power seemed to lie in the depths of those dark eyes! The young man felt the truth of the proverb， “Still waters run deep：” and his heart had sunk into their depths. He often talked of his adventures， and the mamma was as simple and eager in her questions as on the first evening they met. It was a pleasure to hear Alfred describe anything. He showed them colored plates of Naples， and spoke of excursions to Mount Vesuvius， and the eruptions of fire from it. The naval officer's widow had never heard of them before.
“Good heavens!” she exclaimed. “So that is a burning mountain; but is it not very dangerous to the people who live near it?”
“Whole cities have been destroyed，” he replied; “for instance， Herculaneum and Pompeii.”
“Oh， the poor people! And you saw all that with your own eyes?”
“No; I did not see any of the eruptions which are represented in those pictures; but I will show you a sketch of my own， which represents an eruption I once saw.”
He placed a pencil sketch on the table; and mamma， who had been over-powered with the appearance of the colored plates， threw a glance at the pale drawing and cried in astonishment， “What， did you see it throw up white fire?”
For a moment， Alfred's respect for Kala's mamma underwent a sudden shock， and lessened considerably; but， dazzled by the light which surrounded Kala， he soon found it quite natural that the old lady should have no eye for color. After all， it was of very little consequence; for Kala's mamma had the best of all possessions; namely， Kala herself.
Alfred and Kala were betrothed， which was a very natural result; and the betrothal was announced in the newspaper of the little town. Mama purchased thirty copies of the paper， that she might cut out the paragraph and send it to friends and acquaintances. The betrothed pair were very happy， and the mother was happy too. She said it seemed like connecting herself with Thorwalsden.
“You are a true successor of Thorwalsden，” she said to Alfred; and it seemed to him as if， in this instance， mamma had said a clever thing. Kala was silent; but her eyes shone， her lips smiled， every movement was graceful，—in fact， she was beautiful; that cannot be repeated too often. Alfred decided to take a bust of Kala as well as of her mother. They sat to him accordingly， and saw how he moulded and formed the soft clay with his fingers.
“I suppose it is only on our account that you perform this common-place work yourself， instead of leaving it to your servant to do all that sticking together.”
“It is really necessary that I should mould the clay myself，” he replied.