end of her first-born, had
brought on paralysis. She could no longer move without assistance.

One other person formed part of the family, without being connected
with it by relationship--a woman who seemed at first sight to have
reached her seventieth year, so slow and difficult were her
movements. Her words savoured a little of obscurity, and her
countenance was rather repulsive. She was a Milanese. Having come to
the baths in Padua, she had taken lodgings in Cadori's house. She
seldom spoke, and paid no attention to what was passing around her.
She always seemed unconscious of the loud and angry language of
Cadori, which was proving fatal to the neglected wife and the
oppressed daughter. She appeared to love no one; no one loved her.
However, as she paid largely for her apartments, Cadori did
everything to keep her in his house.

Though Sophia led a melancholy life, it was much relieved by the
exercise of her accomplishments, which were numerous. No female in
Padua, for instance, could compare with her in the art of
flower-making. Her friends contended for the pleasure of adorning
themselves with one of these flowers; courteous and kind to all, she
distributed some to each. Even the mercers of the city, when they had
need of flowers of superior beauty, applied to Sophia, who willingly
acceded to their requests.

The two days of delay to Edoardo's departure were past, and in those
two days the Signora Cadori had had a new and very violent attack,
which placed her life in danger. Edoardo came to take leave of the
family. When alone, the conversation, the adieus of the lovers, were
not long; they both wept, looked at each other, and were silent. Yet
how many things had they to say to each other, how many promises to
renew, how many hopes and fears to exchange!

They parted; Edoardo pleased with himself, and Sophia dissatisfied
with him and herself, without knowing why.

The heart is a true prophet: the fears of Sophia were about being
realised; the days of her mother were drawing to a close. Sophia,
sad and terrified, was never absent from her bedside. Her heart, her
heart alone, sometimes wandered after the footsteps of another
beloved, but less unhappy being. Forgive that thought of love to the
maiden; call it not a sin. Sixteen! a soul so tender! the first love!
The maternal eye saw into the inmost heart of the daughter, and felt
no jealousy at those thoughts flying to her distant love. In those
moments she s