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same belief, without being conscious how much ambition had given a colouring to his love. Both looked forward with eager anticipation to a meeting, which at length took place. Old vows were renewed, and the happiness of a life appeared consummated,-when the lady was agonized at discovering that her lover was faithless-the adorer of one of her dependants, a young girl of surpassing beauty, who resided in the castle. All his boyish dreams, the love of his youth, the aim of his ambition had yielded before the influence of "love at first sight," and this the forsaken one discovered. While the most plaintive music conveyed, with the admirable acting of the prima donna, the nature of the feelings she might be supposed to endure to the auditor, Stafford was startled by a deep sigh, and now, for the first time, found that a lady shared the box with himself and his friend. The second act closed upon the sorrows of the heroine, when, without any introduction, and still remaining within the shade of the curtain, the lady said in a low voice,

"Do you think it possible that the feelings of years could be thus destroyed in a moment?"

"No," said the count, decidedly; "the plot is any thing but natural, and the success of the piece entirely depends on the beauty of the music."

"It is well," said Stafford, "that in a opera we need not expect perfect stage propriety, or the object would be lost. The aim of the composer is to convey the emotions of the soul by his music; the stage action merely elucidates his meaning more clearly. If you do not regard it in this light, how absurd would be the interchange of vows of passionate love in the runs of a tenor, and the cadenza of a soprano ; the thundering chorus of a set of midnight robbers about to surprise their prey; or the deep schemes of a villain explained in the lowest notes of the basso."

"But," replied the count, "at any rate you have a right to expect that the emotions portrayed by the composer in his music, should be natural ones. He may write the air of a despairing lover, but do not let this despair be brought about by unnatural causes. This, instead of assisting, mars his efforts."

"Very true," said Stafford, "but to return to this piece; every one, I suppose, could judge of the probability of the lover's conduct by his own feelings."

"And would it be fair to ask," hastily interrupted the lady, "if you consider it true to nature?"

Why, perhaps, scarcely so," laughingly replied Stafford; "for as I have just said that one can only judge by his own feelings, if I do not deny its probability, of course I am set down for the most faithless of mortals."

"But seriously," said the count, "you cannot think such conduct within the bounds of possibility."

"I should, perhaps, at times agree with you," said Stafford; "but I can conceive a man acting even for years under a mistaken feeling. He might not know how much the gratified vanity of the boy, the aspiring ambition of youth, had been mistaken for the love of the man ; and when, his ambition being accomplished, the inequality between the parties was removed, the same flattering preference could not be

shown, and the man missed one of the most powerful of the boy's emotions."

"But," replied the count, "the feelings of years to be destroyed by the first glance of a pretty face! Impossible!"

"You are no Platonist, my dear count," said Stafford.

The conversation appeared to be finished, when, after a short pause, the lady suddenly resumed it, saying, "But what has Plato to do with the question?"

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Why," said Stafford, " perhaps not much; yet I feel that some of his notions are almost verified in this very question of love at first sight; in this unaccountable attraction, which many must have felt towards one never seen before. This secret sympathy is a kind of memory, perhaps the imperfect and clouded consciousness of a former existence."

At this moment some one knocked at the door of the box, and one of the messengers of the house brought a message to Stafford from his captain, who was in a box below, asking him to come down immediately. Stafford just explained the nature of the interruption to his companions, and followed the messenger, expecting to return after a few minutes. The captain, however, wished to introduce him to some friends, and before he could leave them, he had the mortification of seeing that the count had quitted his box.

As early the next morning as etiquette allowed, Stafford called on the old gentleman, feeling a strange sort of impatience to hear something of the fair incognita, but had the mortification of finding that he had left Genoa that morning for Turin, on official matters of importance. He therefore remained in a state of very puzzling uncertainty as to the name, condition, and even appearance of the lady of the box, which was still more perplexing, as he felt an almost unaccountable conviction that she was also the veiled lady of the Acquasola.

CHAP. III.

THE ASSIGNATION.

RATHER late in the afternoon of the same day, Stafford, who had been engaged on some trifling matter at the consulate, was returning by the Strada Nuovo, and was stopping to admire one of the beautiful marble palaces which adorn that street, when he felt a hand placed upon his shoulder, and a clear, ringing voice cried,

"Ah, Stafford, my boy, I did not know you were ashore. Have you heard the news? We're off."

"Indeed! I thought we were to wait for the illumination."

"I thought so too, but the skipper has just said that he had had feasting and dancing enough, and only waited to end some business with the ambassador to be off. Heigho!"

"What! a sigh from you, the prince of reefers? Why, you must be in love. Come, there's no occasion to look foolish; I suppose one of the dark-haired signorine has let you see that she has no objection to the capelli bianchi of we northmen."

"Well, to tell you the truth, Stafford, I have seen one of the dearest,

prettiest, and most seducing little devils you can fancy-neither tall nor short-neither pale nor dark-nicely rounded off-as lively and sparkling as a bottle of champaign. Oh, such love-telling eyes!such a voice!-such a laugh!-by Jove, I shall die of vexation if I never see her again."

"Capital, really! You'd act a romantic lover in a light comedy to admiration! And pray who is this paragon?"

"Ah! that's the question. I saw her the first time in the Acquasola."

"Ah! the Acquasola?" said Stafford to himself, and started slightly; but his companion did not notice him, and continued. “I put my Italian to some purpose-pretended it was the custom in England to dispense with formal introductions-had a long chat with the pretty creature-made an appointment to see her again, and have done so every day since.”

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"And after so many meetings you have not found out who she is?" Nothing more than that her name is Laura, and that she is a sort of companion with one of the duchesses, contessas, or marchesas who swarm here as thick as bees. I have always tried to accompany her home, but she always makes me stop at a certain spot, and though I have followed as closely as I could, I have never been able to find out where she disappears."

"Singular, certainly," said Stafford, "but why not go to the house of this contessa, or marchesa, or whatever she may be?"

"Why not?-why because I don't know her name, and Laura refuses to tell me; and, by the bye, I forgot to tell you that the other day she was making very particular inquiries about you, so particular indeed, that I began to get a little jealous, though I believe she wormed out of me all I knew about you.'

"Satisfactory that, at any rate; but here's the café del Cairo; suppose we talk the matter over and enjoy an ice at the same time."

This was agreed upon, and the two friends had not been long seated when a man, having the appearance of a gardener, who had been loitering about the door, entered and addressed them in that barbarous mixture of Italian, French, and German, which the Genoese call a language, but which is certainly the vilest patois under heaven. It was, of course, incomprehensible, but he managed to make Stafford understand that he wished to speak with him alone. Stafford, rather amused, walked aside, when the man presented one of those notes of which the fanciful folding at once betrays their feminine origin. Stafford at once opened it, and read in a fair Italian character:

"I wish to speak with you this evening. Do not misunderstand me; I am a lady of honourable birth and reputation. I wish to see you on an affair of importance, and trust you will accept my invitation. Excuse the liberty, and take in good part the offer of one who is no stranger to your person or character."

There was no signature, and the surprise and curiosity of Stafford was excessive, but he controlled any appearance of them, and went into the café, where he wrote a note, simply stating that he should be happy to comply with the lady's request, gave it to the bearer of his

billet, and appointed to meet him at the Porto Franco early in the evening.

CHAP. IV.

THE MASK AND THE MASKER.

She

In a small apartment opening into a drawing-room of one of the magnificent palaces which form the characteristic feature of Genoese architecture, two ladies were seated, the one employed upon a piece of fancy embroidery, the other leaning back in a fauteuil, and running over the strings of a guitar with a hurried hand, and in an irregular manner, evidently abandoning herself to the enjoyment of a reverie. There was a striking personal resemblance between these two ladies, but the former was the younger, apparently by five or six years. was a tall, sparkling Italian beauty of eighteen, whose olive complexion, eyes and hair of jet, ruddy lips and swelling bust, would have perhaps expressed rather too much of the passion of woman's nature, if their effect had not been softened by an air of quiet dignity which the young lady had derived from her birth and station. Her companion was of the same stature, and her figure rather more developed; there was something imperious and commanding in her appearance, combined with a melancholy expression proceeding from her beautiful eyes, which were partly covered by a luxurious veil of long, dark, eyelashes. The ladies sat for some time without speaking; at last the elder appeared to rouse herself from her reverie, and said,

"Lucia, how do you like that dress which Laura has left so carelessly on the table yonder?"

"Oh, it is extremely elegant, I admire it very much," replied the younger lady.

"I am glad you like it, for I have obtained one of the same pattern for you, and besides that, during the last few days I have employed an artist to paint you in it. I wished to have your portrait to console me in some measure for your expected departure."

"My dear cousin, you are always spoiling me by your kindness. But I see the carriage is ready, shall we go out?"

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Why, I suppose you will only make a call or two, and then go to the usual conversazione, so I think I will meet you there. I shall perhaps come a little later than usual, as I rather expect a person I wish to see.'

The younger lady left the room, and her late companion remained sitting in a thoughtful attitude, occasionally running her beautiful hand almost unconsciously over the strings of her guitar.

The Contessa Palestrina was a young widow, who had been married when quite a girl, by the desire of her father, to the count, who was more than three times her own age. He, however, had scarcely survived the marriage a year, and left our heroine mistress of a splendid property. Her beauty and accomplishments (not to slight the Genoese by adding, and her uncontrolled possession of a splendid income), drew around her a crowd of suitors; but four years had now elapsed since the commencement of her widowhood, and all were equally unfavoured. She had lost her mother at an early age, had been brought up under the eye of a stern, unapproachable father, had been married to a man

she never loved, and thus being dependant upon her own resources for pleasure, she had by reading and study, under the best masters, become a highly-educated and self-dependant woman. She was naturally romantic and enthusiastic, the imaginative literature she often indulged in was of this caste, and she had determined that her second marriage should be one in which the heart alone was engaged. She frequently reflected upon the various young men who came before her, but had never met with one who approached the ideal she had set up as her bosom's idol; never one who had inspired the secret inward thrill of love. She felt one great end of her nature was unfulfilled, but remained happy in the society of her cousin, until her accidental meeting with Stafford in the Acquasola. Unseen by him, she had observed him at a party the following evening, and was more impressed by his manners and conversation than she would probably have ever confessed to herself. She planned the meeting in the box at the opera, and had ever since been in a state of dreamy delight. She had at last found, as she fondly imagined, one who could sympathize in her feelings-one who knew what it was to love. She accidentally discovered that her confidential attendant had been noticed by one of Stafford's companions, and without showing any remarkable anxiety, she had gained a very good idea of his character from the statements of his friend. She fancied, partly from this information, and partly from his conversation at the theatre, that although he was very susceptible to the influence of the sex, these impressions might be as fleeting as sudden. She had therefore formed a plot by which she thought she should discover if he had been deeply impressed by herself, and could judge as to the stability of his passion.

After her cousin had left the room the contessa revolved her plan over in all its bearings, and was rising to reach a close black silk mask from her desk when Laura entered and told her that Paolo had returned, accompanied by an English officer. The lady, with suppressed agitation, masked very closely, placed the picture of her cousin under the guitar, and told Laura to bring in the stranger.

CHAP. V.

THE BOUDOIR AND THE PORTRAIT.

STAFFORD, after dressing on board, with rather more than his usual care, was punctual to his appointment at the Porto Franco, where he met Paolo, as agreed upon. A plain carriage was in waiting, in which he at once seated himself, and saw that they were leaving the city by the Rapallo road. After a short drive they entered the grounds of a Here noble residence, and drew up at the entrance to the gardens. Stafford alighted, and was shown into a small room opening into this garden, when Paolo left him. After a few minutes he was conducted into another part of the mansion by Laura, and was standing before the masked lady we have just introduced to the reader. Rather an embarrassing silence ensued; Stafford appeared confused, the countess agitated, but she was the first to speak, and said in a faltering tone,

"You will pardon me, sir, for the liberty I have taken, and the trouble I have given you. Pray be seated."

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