a second time! Cruel, cruel fate! to place the
prize within his reach just when he was unable—
all but unable—to profit by the golden chance!

Tormented with these thoughts, the old man
turned from the bridge, down the Via degli
Archibusieri towards the Uffizi, and began
pacing to and fro beneath the colonnade that
faces the river. Pulling from his pocket the old
leathern bag that served him for a purse, he
emptied the contents into his lean and shaking
hand, and counted up the amount of the various
small coins. There was one paul, one half paul,
a piece of two crazie, or quarter of a paul, and
several of the small thin copper coins called
soldi, the twentieth part of the lira, and
containing twelve denari. The lira is worth
eightpence; and its two hundred and fortieth part,
the denaro, no longer exists in the body, but
only as a money of account. These Lire, Soldi,
and Denari are the originals of our £ s. d., but
while prosperity and progress have with us
pushed up the value of the coins to pounds and
shillings, they have remained in Italy, during her
period of stagnation, more nearly of their original
worth. So that, although Laudadio counted up
one pound ten shillings and eightpence, his
whole availiable assets amounted only to an
unstatable fraction more than a shilling.

Now this sum, invested in a ticket for a terno,
would, in case of success, produce a prize of some
twelve hundred crowns, or about two hundred
and fifty pounds; a very large sum to Laudadio
Vanni, but far from sufficient to repay him with
interest all the moneys he had, in the course of
his long life, sunk in lottery tickets. And he
considered that Fortune owed him nothing less
than this, and that she was now at last ready
and willing to discharge all her debt to him, if
he could only comply with the indispensable
conditions. To make no more than twelve
hundred dollars out of the great and sure
opportunity now offered to him, seemed a stroke of
misfortune and ill luck more difficult to bear
than all the disappointments his worship of the
blind goddess had hitherto exposed him to.
Visions of riches paraded themselves before his
mind, riches which should not only bring with
them all the advantages which usually
accompany them, but which should triumphantly
justify in the face of all Florence, and especially
of his own friends and family, his wisdom and
prudence, and the accuracy and value of his
much-boasted science. The more he thought of
all this, and the more he pictured to himself the
certainty of success, the more the small sum at
his disposition seemed altogether contemptible
and insignificant.

"If only they would believe me!" he muttered,
as he continued in increasing agitation and
excitement to walk up and down beneath the dark
colonnade, turning over and over in his hands
the poor little coins, for which he felt a growing
contempt. "If only they in their ignorance
would trust the knowledge gained by half a
century of study and calculation! But they are
obstinate as ignorance always is. And for whose
sake do I need wealth now? Not for my own, I
trow. And I could make their fortune for them!
All too late for me! But I could make for them
a life and position such as my Laura deserves,
and such as Carlo Bardi has never dreamed of!
And all that is wanting is a few dollars, which
they have, and of which they can have no need,
till after they will have been returned to them
tenfold—a hundred-fold!—a thousand-fold!"

The old man had quickened his pace as these
thoughts were passing through his mind; and he
continued his walk, even quicker and quicker for
some minutes, gesticulating with his arms, and
ever and anon coming to a sudden stop in his
walk. At last he turned towards the bridge, and
slackening his pace considerably, and bending his
face more than usual to the ground, he reached
the door of his own shop. He paused before
putting his hand to the door; looked with a
sharp suspicious glance up and down the bridge;
pulled a check blue handkerchief from his pocket,
with which he wiped the drops from his brow;
tossed with an impatient movement the coins he
had been counting into his coat pocket, and then
entered the little shop.

It was by that time about half-past nine
o'clock, and the cavaliere and Carlo were
thinking of saying good night. They all took it
quite as a matter of course that the old man had
been to the office, and had expended all the
money in his pocket in a lottery ticket.

"You'll be watching the drawing to-morrow,
my friend," said Sestini. "Shall I come with
you? If you will, we can meet at the café in
the piazza."

"No! I don't know—perhaps I shall not go
to-morrow," returned the old man, hesitatingly;
but added, after a pause, "well! yes! we will
go together. I will look for you at the café a
little before mid-day."

Laura and Carlo had meanwhile said their
good nights, and once again he and the cavaliere
left the shop together.

"Let us go to bed, Laura," said the old man,
as soon as ever they were gone. "You will have
a long day's work to-morrow, and I am
sleepy."

Laura was rather surprised to hear him say so,
for his usual habit was to sit up long after she
had gone to her closet over the back shop. But
she made no remark, her mind being, as may be
supposed, full enough of her own thoughts.

"Good night, father," she said; "sleep well,
and dream of the numbers of your terno for
tomorrow;" and so saying, she climbed the steep
stair to her miniature bedroom, leaving him to
follow her up the ladder-like stair.

Laudadio went to the door of the shop,
opened it, and looked out anxiously, as it seemed,
first in one direction, then in the other, and
then closing it, put his hand to the heavy bolts
and locks, which he moved, as if securing the
shop for the night. Yet he turned no lock, and
shot no bolt, but, leaving the door thus simply