hey did not her cheerfulness. She felt as if she could
no longer endure the misery of her life; she prayed to die.

"Why are you so unhappy?" said the Count Leon kindly to her, one day.

To have explained the cause of her wretchedness would have been death
indeed.

"I am going to give you a treat," continued Leon. "A celebrated singer
is to appear to-night in the theater. I will send you to hear her, and
afterward you shall sing to me what you remember of her performances."

Anielka went. It was a new era in her existence. Herself, by this
time, an artist, she could forget her griefs, and enter with her
whole soul into the beauties of the art she now heard practiced in
perfection for the first time. To music a chord responded in her
breast which vibrated powerfully. During the performances she was
at one moment pale and trembling, tears rushing into her eyes; at
another, she was ready to throw herself at the feet of the cantatrice,
in an ecstacy of admiration. "Prima donna,"--by that name the public
called on her to receive their applause, and it was the same, thought
Anielka, that Justiniani had bestowed upon her. Could she also be a
prima donna? What a glorious destiny! To be able to communicate one's
own emotions to masses of entranced listeners; to awaken in them, by
the power of the voice, grief, love, terror.

Strange thoughts continued to haunt her on her return home. She was
unable to sleep. She formed desperate plans. At last she resolved to
throw off the yoke of servitude, and the still more painful slavery of
feelings which her pride disdained. Having learnt the address of the
prima donna, she went early one morning to her house.

On entering she said, in French, almost incoherently, so great was her
agitation--"Madam, I am a poor serf belonging to a Polish family who
have lately arrived in Florence. I have escaped from them; protect,
shelter me. They say I can sing."

The Signora Teresina, a warm-hearted, passionate Italian, was
interested by her artless earnestness. She said, "Poor child! you must
have suffered much,"--she took Anielka's hand in hers. "You say you
can sing; let me hear you." Anielka seated herself on an ottoman. She
clasped her hands over her knees, and tears fell into her lap. With
plaintive pathos, and perfect truth of intonation, she prayed in
song. The Hymn to the Virgin seemed to Teresina to be offered up by
inspiration.

The Signora was astonished. "Where," she asked, in wond