and
which the exile modestly sought to withdraw from that act of homage,
Randal pocketed the letters; and, as if struggling with emotion, rushed
from the house.

Now, O curious reader, if thou wilt heedfully observe to what uses
Randal Leslie put those letters,--what speedy and direct results he drew
forth from devices which would seem to an honest simple understanding
the most roundabout, wire-drawn wastes of invention,--I almost fear
that in thine admiration for his cleverness, thou mayest half forget thy
contempt for his knavery.

But when the head is very full, it does not do to have the heart very
empty; there is such a thing as being top-heavy!

CHAPTER IV.

Helen and Violante had been conversing together, and Helen had obeyed
her guardian's injunction, and spoken, though briefly, of her positive
engagement to Harley. However much Violante had been prepared for the
confidence, however clearly she had divined that engagement, however
before persuaded that the dream of her childhood was fled forever, still
the positive truth, coming from Helen's own lips, was attended with that
anguish which proves how impossible it is to prepare the human heart for
the final verdict which slays its future. She did not, however, betray
her emotion to Helen's artless eyes; sorrow, deep-seated, is seldom
self-betrayed. But, after a little while, she crept away; and, forgetful
of Peschiera, of all things that could threaten danger (what danger
could harm her more!) she glided from the house, and went her desolate
way under the leafless wintry trees. Ever and anon she paused, ever
and anon she murmured the same words: "If she loved him, I could be
consoled; but she does not! or how could she have spoken to me
so calmly! how could her very looks have been so sad! Heartless!
heartless!"

Then there came on her a vehement resentment against poor Helen,
that almost took the character of scorn or hate,--its excess startled
herself. "Am I grown so mean?" she said; and tears that humbled her
rushed to her eyes. "Can so short a time alter one thus? Impossible!"

Randal Leslie rang at the front gate, inquired for Violante, and,
catching sight of her form as he walked towards the house, advanced
boldly and openly. His voice startled her as she leaned against one of
the dreary trees, still muttering to herself,--forlorn. "I have a letter
to you from your father, Signorina," said Randal; "but before I give it
to your hands, some expla