I want both, my dear
brother,' wrote she; 'for though the bonds we make for ourselves by our
passions--' And the rest of the sentence was erased--she evidently thinking
she had delineated all that could give a clue to a despondent reflection.

The present letter was written in English, but in that quaint, peculiar
hand Italians often write. It began by asking forgiveness for daring to
write to him, and recalling the details of the relationship between them,
as though he could not have remembered it. 'I am, then, in my right,' wrote
she, 'when I address you as my dear, dear uncle, of whom I have heard so
much, and whose name was in my prayers ere I knew why I knelt to pray.'

Then followed a piteous appeal--it was actually a cry for protection. Her
father, she said, had determined to devote her to the stage, and already
had taken steps to sell her--she said she used the word advisedly--for
so many years to the impresario of the 'Fenice' at Venice, her voice and
musical skill being such as to give hope of her becoming a prima donna.
She had, she said, frequently sung at private parties at Rome, but only
knew within the last few days that she had been, not a guest, but a paid
performer. Overwhelmed with the shame and indignity of this false position,
she implored her mother's brother to compassionate her. 'If I could not
become a governess, I could be your servant, dearest uncle,' she wrote. 'I
only ask a roof to shelter me, and a refuge. May I go to you? I would beg
my way on foot if I only knew that at the last your heart and your door
would be open to me, and as I fell at your feet, knew that I was saved.'

Until a few days ago, she said, she had by her some little trinkets her
mother had left her, and on which she counted as a means of escape, but her
father had discovered them and taken them from her.

'If you answer this--and oh! let me not doubt you will--write to me to the
care of the Signori Cayani and Battistella, bankers, Rome. Do not delay,
but remember that I am friendless, and but for this chance hopeless.--Your
niece,

'NINA KOSTALERGI.'

While Kearney gave this letter to his daughter to read, he walked up and
down the room with his head bent and his hands deep in his pockets.

'I think I know the answer you'll send to this, papa,' said the girl,
looking up at him with a glow of pride and affection in her face. 'I do not
need that you should say it.'

'It will take fifty--no, not fifty, but five-and-t