said Sophia, rising and presenting a third wreath to the
bride. 'The Signor Edoardo ordered me to make this some time ago for
his bride, and I trust I have not laboured in vain.'

'In truth it is much handsomer than either of these others,' said the
bride; 'but you told me nothing of this, Edoardo?'

'It was a surprise,' added Sophia.

'My own Edoardo,' said the bride again; 'another kindness; a new
expression of your love. Oh, how dear this wreath will be to me!' and
she retired, taking it with her.

Sophia looked at the door through which the lady had disappeared, and
bursting into tears, exclaimed: 'Oh my poor wreath!'

'Sophia, Sophia, you are an angel,' said Edoardo. 'Once more I owe
you my life.'

'Since she is yours,' replied Sophia mournfully, and sitting down
faint and exhausted on her trunk--'since she is yours, ought I to
bring death to her mind, the death that I feel already in my poor
heart? No one knows, no one can know what is suffering, but those who
suffer; oh, no woman ever endured what I endure at this moment!
Go--go, Edoardo; prepare yourself for the ceremony: they are waiting
for you. I have no more reproaches to make you--no more right to make
them. All was in that wreath, and in renouncing that, I have
renounced this. Go--I have need of not seeing you. I promise you that
when you return I will be no longer here to trouble you with my
presence.'

Edoardo, pale, confused, penitent, bent a long last gaze on Sophia;
then left the room, saying: 'I am a villain--I am a villain.'

Two hours after, the marriage-ceremony was performed. The gondolas
that bore the bridal cortege, on their return from the church of St
Moise, were met by some fishing-boats that had drawn up a drowned
female. The gondolas had to stop in order to let them pass. 'A sad
omen for the bride and bridegroom,' said an old woman of the company.

Edoardo, who had recognised that pale corpse, had thrown himself at
the bottom of his gondola, in order to conceal his emotion, and with
a convulsive motion pressed the hand of his bride, which he held
between his own. The simple girl, interpreting that squeeze as an
expression of love, said: 'Oh, my Edoardo, you will ever love me?'

'Ever, ever,' replied Edoardo, wiping away a tear. He then muttered
to himself: 'Poor, poor Sophia!--she was an Angel, and I am a
villain.'

THE DUKE OF NORMANDY.

A ROMANCE OP REAL LIFE.

The continental journals announced that, on the 10th of