there was little that she would not have braved for the chance of
serving her father. And now all peril seemed slight in comparison
with that which awaited her in Randal's suit, backed by her father's
approval. Randal had said that Madame di Negra alone could aid her in
escape from himself. Harley had said that Madame di Negra had generous
qualities; and who but Madame di Negra would write herself a kinswoman,
and sign herself "Beatrice"?

A little before the appointed hour, she stole unobserved through the
trees, opened the little gate, and found herself in the quiet, solitary
lane. In a few minutes; a female figure came up, with a quick, light
step; and throwing aside her veil, said, with a sort of wild, suppressed
energy, "It is you! I was truly told. Beautiful! beautiful! And oh! what
youth and what bloom!"

The voice dropped mournfully; and Violante, surprised by the tone, and
blushing under the praise, remained a moment silent; then she said, with
some hesitation,

"You are, I presume, the Marchesa di Negra? And I have heard of you
enough to induce me to trust you."

"Of me! From whom?" asked Beatrice, almost fiercely. "From Mr Leslie,
and--and--"

"Go on; why falter?"

"From Lord L'Estrange."

"From no one else?"

"Not that I remember."

Beatrice sighed heavily, and let fall her veil. Some foot-passengers now
came up the lane; and seeing two ladies, of mien so remarkable, turned
round, and gazed curiously.

"We cannot talk here," said Beatrice, impatiently; "and I have so much
to say, so much to know. Trust me yet more; it is for yourself I speak.
My carriage waits yonder. Come home with me,--I will not detain you an
hour; and I will bring you back."

This proposition startled Violante. She retreated towards the gate with
a gesture of dissent. Beatrice laid her hand on the girl's arm, and
again lifting her veil, gazed at her with a look half of scorn, half of
admiration.

"I, too, would once have recoiled from one step beyond the formal line
by which the world divides liberty from woman. Now see how bold I am.
Child, child, do not trifle with your destiny. You may never again have
the same occasion offered to you. It is not only to meet you that I
am here; I must know something of you,--something of your heart. Why
shrink? Is not the heart pure?"

Violante made no answer; but her smile, so sweet and so lofty, humbled
the questioner it rebuked.

"I may restore to Italy your father," said Beatr