thing to bear. She had been left to herself as long as she
could remember any thing. A peasant--Teresa, her foster-mother--had
come with her from Mantua, and from Teresa alone she received such
affection as she had ever known. A mere animal affection, however,
which lost its value as she grew into womanhood.

Thus it was that Enrica came to accept the marchesa's rough tongue,
her arrogance, and her caprices, as a normal state of existence. She
never complained. If she suffered, it was in silence. To reason with
the marchesa, much more dispute with her, was worse than useless. She
was not accustomed to be talked to, certainly not by her niece. It
only exasperated her and fixed her more doggedly in whatever purpose
she might have in hand. But there was a certain stern sense of justice
about her when left to herself--if only the demon of her family pride
were not aroused, then she was inexorable--that would sometimes come
to the rescue. Yet, under all the tyranny of this neutral life which
circumstances had imposed on her, Enrica, unknown to herself--for
how should she, who knew so little, know herself?--grew up to have a
strong will. She might be bent, but she would never break. In this she
resembled the marchesa. Gentle, loving, and outwardly submissive,
she was yet passively determined. Even the marchesa came to be dimly
conscious of this, although she considered it as utterly unimportant,
otherwise than to punish and to repress.

Shut up within the dreary palace at Lucca, or in the mountain solitude
of Corellia, Enrica yearned for freedom. She was like a young bird,
full-fledged and strong, that longs to leave the parent-nest--to
stretch its stout wings on the warm air--to soar upward into the
light!

Now the light had come to Enrica. It came when she first saw Count
Nobili. It shone in her eyes, it dazzled her, it intoxicated her. On
that day a new world opened before her--a fair and pleasant world,
light with the dawn of love--a world as different as golden summer
to the winter of her home. How she gloried in Nobili! How she loved
him!--his comely looks, his kindling smile (like sunshine everywhere),
his lordly ways, his triumphant prosperity! He had come to her, she
knew not how. She had never sought him. He had come--come like fate.
She never asked herself if it was wrong or right to love him. How
could she help it? Was he not born to be loved? Was he not her own--a
thousand times her own--as he told her--"fore