ugh familiarity with
the modes of society, gave him the entree to many houses where his talents
amply requited the hospitality he received. He possessed, amongst his other
gifts, an immense amount of plausibility, and people found it, besides,
very difficult to believe ill of that well-bred, somewhat retiring man,
who, in circumstances of the very narrowest fortunes, not only looked and
dressed like a gentleman, but actually brought up a daughter with a degree
of care and an amount of regard to her education that made him appear a
model parent.

Nina Kostalergi was then about seventeen, though she looked at least three
years older. She was a tall, slight, pale girl, with perfectly regular
features--so classic in the mould, and so devoid of any expression, that
she recalled the face one sees on a cameo. Her hair was of wondrous
beauty--that rich gold colour which has _reflets_ through it, as the light
falls full or faint, and of an abundance that taxed her ingenuity to dress
it. They gave her the sobriquet of the Titian Girl at Rome whenever she
appeared abroad.

In the only letter Kearney had received from his brother-in-law after his
sister's death was an insolent demand for a sum of money, which he alleged
that Kearney was unjustly withholding, and which he now threatened to
enforce by law. 'I am well aware,' wrote he, 'what measure of honour or
honesty I am to expect from a man whose very name and designation are a
deceit. But probably prudence will suggest how much better it would be
on this occasion to simulate rectitude than risk the shame of an open
exposure.'

To this gross insult Kearney never deigned any reply; and now more than two
years passed without any tidings of his disreputable relative, when there
came one morning a letter with the Roman postmark, and addressed, '_A
Monsieur le Vicomte de Kilgobbin, a son Chateau de Kilgobbin, en Irlande._'
To the honour of the officials in the Irish post-office, it was forwarded
to Kilgobbin with the words, 'Try Mathew Kearney, Esq.,' in the corner.

A glance at the writing showed it was not in Kostalergi's hand, and, after
a moment or two of hesitation, Kearney opened it. He turned at once for the
writer's name, and read the words, 'Nina Kostalergi'--his sister's child!
'Poor Matty,' was all he could say for some minutes. He remembered the
letter in which she told him of her little girl's birth, and implored his
forgiveness for herself and his love for her baby.'