ious of the fears of which she was the object,
had felt something of youthful curiosity at the summons at the gate, and
the sight of a stranger in close and friendly conference with the
unsocial Giacomo.

As Harley now neared her with that singular grace of movement which
belonged to him, a thrill shot through her heart--she knew not why. She
did not recognize his likeness to the sketch taken by her father, from
his recollections of Harley's early youth. She did not guess who he was;
and yet she felt herself color, and, naturally fearless though she was,
turned away with a vague alarm.

"Pardon my want of ceremony, Signorina," said Harley, in Italian; "but I
am so old a friend of your father's that I cannot feel as a stranger to
yourself."

Then Violante lifted to him her dark eyes, so intelligent and so
innocent--eyes full of surprise, but not displeased surprise. And Harley
himself stood amazed, and almost abashed, by the rich and marvellous
beauty that beamed upon him. "My father's friend," she said
hesitatingly, "and I never to have seen you!"

"Ah, Signorina," said Harley (and something of his native humor, half
arch, half sad, played round his lip,) "you are mistaken there; you have
seen me before, and you received me much more kindly then--"

"Signor!" said Violante, more and more surprised, and with a yet richer
color on her cheeks.

Harley, who had now recovered from the first effect of her beauty, and
who regarded her as men of his years and character are apt to regard
ladies in their teens, as more child than woman, suffered himself to be
amused by her perplexity; for it was in his nature, that the graver and
more mournful he felt at heart, the more he sought to give play and whim
to his spirits.

"Indeed Signorina," said he demurely, "you insisted then on placing one
of those fair hands in mine; the other (forgive me the fidelity of my
recollections) was affectionately thrown around my neck."

"Signor!" again exclaimed Violante; but this time there was anger in her
voice as well as surprise, and nothing could be more charming than her
look of pride and resentment.

Harley smiled again, but with so much kindly sweetness, that the anger
vanished at once, or rather Violante felt angry with herself that she
was no longer angry with him. But she had looked so beautiful in her
anger, that Harley wished, perhaps, to see her angry again. So,
composing his lips from their propitiatory smile he resumed, gra