ll
motioning to her to follow him. She entered, by a low portal, a dark
cloister; it led to an ante-chapel, through which, as she passed, her
ear caught the solemn chorus of the brethren. Her step faltered; her
sight was clouded; she was as one walking in a dream. The monk opened
a door, and, retiring, waved his hand, as for her to enter. There was
a spacious and lofty chamber, scantily furnished, some huge chests,
and many sacred garments. At the extreme distance her mother was
reclined on a bench, her head supported by a large crimson cushion,
and her father kneeling by her mother's side. With a soundless step,
and not venturing even to breathe, Venetia approached them, and, she
knew not how, found herself embraced by both her parents.

END OF BOOK V.

BOOK VI.

CHAPTER I.

In a green valley of the Apennines, close to the sea-coast between
Genoa and Spezzia, is a marine villa, that once belonged to the
Malaspina family, in olden time the friends and patrons of Dante. It
is rather a fantastic pile, painted in fresco, but spacious, in good
repair, and convenient. Although little more than a mile from Spezzia,
a glimpse of the blue sea can only be caught from one particular spot,
so completely is the land locked with hills, covered with groves of
chestnut and olive orchards. From the heights, however, you enjoy
magnificent prospects of the most picturesque portion of the Italian
coast; a lofty, undulating, and wooded shore, with an infinite variety
of bays and jutting promontories; while the eye, wandering from
Leghorn on one side towards Genoa on the other, traces an almost
uninterrupted line of hamlets and casinos, gardens and orchards,
terraces of vines, and groves of olive. Beyond them, the broad and
blue expanse of the midland ocean, glittering in the meridian blaze,
or about to receive perhaps in its glowing waters the red orb of
sunset.

It was the month of May, in Italy, at least, the merry month of May,
and Marmion Herbert came forth from the villa Malaspina, and throwing
himself on the turf, was soon lost in the volume of Plato which he
bore with him. He did not move until in the course of an hour he was
roused by the arrival of servants, who brought seats and a table,
when, looking up, he observed Lady Annabel and Venetia in the portico
of the villa. He rose to greet them, and gave his arm to his wife.

'Spring in the Apennines, my Annabel,' said Herbert, 'is a happy
combination. I