affliction.

I started from my trance of pleasure on observing that the guests were
taking leave. I at once arose, and, as she extended her hand to me, I
felt the blood rush to my face and forehead. I barely dared to touch it
with my lips, and retired. I hurried from the villa, and, springing into
my boat, was soon landed at the bridge of Dresden.

From that time my visits at the villa were frequent; seldom a week
elapsed without my receiving one or two invitations from the Count; and,
at last, to such an extent did my intimacy proceed, and so superior in
attraction was the society there, that for it I deserted all other, and
only felt happy when with my kind patrons. During this, by far the most
delightful period of my life, I was not entirely free from unhappiness.
Sometimes the likeness of the Countess to the picture would appear to
me so striking as not to be mistaken: one day particularly, when some
sudden intelligence was brought to her that caused momentary alarm
for the Count's safety, her pale cheek and quivering lip brought the
portrait so perfectly before me, that I was unable to speak or offer her
advice when she asked my opinion; and then, vague and horrid doubts,
and a dread of some unknown and unforeseen calamity, would flash upon my
mind; and those who have experienced how deeply they can be impressed
by a presentiment of evil, can tell how little it is in their power to
rally their spirits against terrors which take every or any shape. And
while I reasoned with myself against what might be mere groundless fear,
yet I never could look upon the picture and call to mind the death-bed
sorrow of the old artist, without feeling that some dreadful fate was
connected with its history, in which, as its mere possessor, I might be
involved. Sometimes to such a degree did this anxiety prevail upon
me, that I had fully determined to shew it to the Countess, and either
endeavour to trace its history from her, or at once rid myself of all
apprehension concerning it, if she disclaimed all knowledge of it;
but then, if she really were connected with its story--if, as it was
possible, a mother's fate (for the resemblance could warrant such a
relationship) were wound up' with the story,--what right had I, or how
could I answer to myself, for the mere satisfaction of my own doubts, to
renew the sorrows, and, perhaps, even be the means of publishing to the
world the sad detail of forgotten crime or misfortune? Perhaps, howe