ter.

For two years she had hoped that Wolf would complete her letter in his
own person, and tell her son how her voice and her beauty had won his
father's heart. Quijada had known it; but if he spoke of her to his wife
and foster-son, it was scarcely in her favour--he cared little for music
and singing.

So the loss of this letter seemed to her, with reason, a severe
misfortune. What she now wrote to John could hardly exert much influence
upon him. Yet she did write, this time with the aid of Hannibal. But the
new letter, which began with thanks for the financial aid which the son
had conferred upon his mother through his royal brother, was distasteful
both to her pride and her maternal affection. Half prosaic, half far too
effusive, it gave a distorted idea of her real feelings, and she tore it
up before giving it to the messenger.

Yet she did not cease to hope that, in some favourable hour, the heart of
the idol of her soul would urge him to approach his mother; but year
after year elapsed without bringing her even the slightest token of his
remembrance, and this omission was the bitter drop that spoiled the
happiness which, after the death of her youngest boy, was clouded by no
outward event.

When at last she addressed herself to John in a third letter, which this
time she dictated to Hannibal as her heart prompted, she received an
answer, it is true, though not from him, but from Dona Magdalena.

In kind words this lady urged her not to write to "her"--Dona
Magdalena's--son in future. She had taught him to think of the woman who
bore him with fitting respect, but it would be impossible for him to
maintain the relation with her. She must spare her the explanation of the
reasons which made this appear to be an obstacle to his career. Don John
would prove in the future, by his care for her prosperity and comfort,
that he did not forget her. She had no right, it is true, to counsel her;
but when she transported herself into the soul of the woman who had
enjoyed the love of the Emperor Charles, and on whom Heaven had bestowed
a son like John of Austria, she felt sure that this woman would act
wisely and promote her real welfare if she preferred communion with her
Saviour, in the quiet of a cloister, to the bustle of life amid
surroundings which certainly were far too humble for her.

Barbara felt wounded to the inmost depths of her being by this letter.
Had the officious adviser, who had certainly despatched the