g-room; the sun is low, and the shadows of the pointed arches
double themselves upon the ground. Shadows, too, high up the horizon,
penetrate into the room, and strike across the variegated scagliola
floor, and upon a table in the centre, on which a silver tray is
placed, with glasses of lemonade. Round the table are ranged chairs of
tarnished gilding, and a small settee with spindle-legs.

In her present phase of life, the squalor of these rooms is congenial
to the marchesa. Hitherto reckless of expense, especially in law, she
has all at once grown parsimonious to excess. As to the effect this
change may produce on others, and whether this mode of life is in
keeping with the stately palace she inhabits, the marchesa does not
care in the least; it pleases her, that is enough. All her life she
has been quite clear on two points--her belief in herself, and her
belief in the name she bears.

The marchesa leans back on a high-backed chair and frowns. To frown is
so habitual to her that the wrinkles on her forehead and between her
eyebrows are prematurely deepened. She has a long, sallow face, a
straight nose, keen black eyes, a high forehead, and a thin-lipped
mouth. She is upright, and well made; and the folds of her plain black
dress hang about her tall figure with a certain dignity. Her dark
hair, now sprinkled with white, is fully dressed, the bands combed low
on her forehead. She wears no ornament, except the golden cross of a
_chanoinesse._

As she leans back on her high-backed chair she silently observes her
niece, seated near the open window, knitting.

"If she had been my child!" was the marchesa's thought. "Why was I
denied a child?" And she sighed.

The rays of the setting sun dance among the ripples of Enrica's blond
hair, and light up the dazzling whiteness of her skin. Seen thus in
profile, although her features are regular, and her expression full
of sweetness, it is rather the promise than the perfection of actual
beauty--the rose-bud--by-and-by to expand into the perfect flower.

There was a knock at the door, and a ruddy old face looked in. It
is the Cavaliere Trenta, in his official blue coat and gold buttons,
nankeen inexpressibles, a broad-brimmed white hat and a gold-headed
cane in his hand. Whatever speck of dust might have had the audacity
to venture to settle itself upon any part of the cavaliere's official
blue coat, must at once have hidden its diminished head after peeping
at the cavaliere