the same place by
the casement, concealed by the curtain, her head bent down over her
knitting. She had only looked up once when Nobili's name had been
mentioned. No one had noticed her. It was not the usage of Casa
Guinigi to notice Enrica. Enrica was not the marchesa's daughter;
therefore, except in marriage, she was not entitled to enjoy
the honors of the house. She was never permitted to take part in
conversation.

Marescotti, who had not seen her since she was fourteen, now bounded
across the room to where she sat, overshadowed by the curtain, bowed
to her formally, then touched the tips of her fingers with his lips.

Enrica raised her eyes. And what eyes they were!--large, melancholy,
brooding, of no certain color, changing as she spoke, as the summer
sky changes the color of the sea. They were more gray than blue, yet
they were blue, with long, dark eyelashes that swept upon her cheeks.
As she looked up and smiled, there was an expression of the most
perfect innocence in her face. It was like a flower that opens its
bosom frankly to the sun.

Marescotti's artistic nature was deeply stirred. He gazed at her in
silence for some minutes; he was seeking in his own mind in what type
of womanhood he should place her. Suddenly an idea struck him.--She
was the living image of the young Madonna--the young Madonna before
the visit of the archangel--pale, meditative, pathetic, but with no
shadow of the future upon her face. Marescotti was so engrossed by
this idea that he remained motionless before her. Each one present
observed his emotion, the marchesa specially; she frowned her
disapproval.

Trenta laughed quietly to himself, then stroked his well-shaved chin.

"Signorina," said the count, at length breaking silence, "permit me to
offer my excuses for not having sooner perceived you. Will you forgive
me?"

"Mio Dio!" muttered the marchesa to herself, "he will turn the child's
head with his fine phrases."

"I have nothing to forgive, count," answered Enrica simply. She spoke
low. Her voice matched the expression of her face; there was a natural
tone of plaintiveness in it.

"When I last saw you," continued the count, standing as if spellbound
before her, "you were only a child. Now," and his kindling eyes
riveted themselves upon her, "you are a woman. Like the magic rose
that was the guerdon of the Troubadours, you have passed in an hour
from leaf to bud, from bud to fairest flower. You were, of course, at
the