vely--

"Your flatterers will tell you, Signorina, that you are much improved
since then, but I liked you better as you were; not but what I hope to
return some day what you then so generously pressed upon me."

"Pressed upon you!--I? Signor, you are under some strange mistake."

"Alas! no; but the female heart is so capricious and fickle! You pressed
it upon me, I assure you. I own that I was not loth to accept it."

"Pressed it? Pressed what?"

"Your kiss, my child," said Harley; and then added with a serious
tenderness, "And I again say that I hope to return it some day--when I
see you, by the side of father and of husband, in your native land--the
fairest bride on whom the skies of Italy ever smiled! And now, pardon a
hermit and a soldier for his rude jests, and give your hand, in token of
that pardon, to--Harley L'Estrange."

Violante, who at the first words of this address had recoiled, with a
vague belief that the stranger was out of his mind, sprang forward as it
closed, and in all the vivid enthusiasm of her nature, pressed the hand
held out to her, with both her own. "Harley L'Estrange--the preserver of
my father's life!" she cried, and her eyes were fixed on his with such
evident gratitude and reverence, that Harley felt at once confused and
delighted. She did not think at that instant of the hero of her
dreams--she thought but of him who had saved her father. But, as his
eyes sank before her own, and his head, uncovered, bowed over the hand
he held, she recognized the likeness to the features on which she had so
often gazed. The first bloom of youth was gone, but enough of youth
still remained to soften the lapse of years, and to leave to manhood the
attractions which charm the eye. Instinctively she withdrew her hands
from his clasp, and, in her turn looked down.

In this pause of embarrassment to both, Riccabocca let himself into the
garden by his own latch-key, and, startled to see a man by the side of
Violante, sprang forward with an abrupt and angry cry. Harley heard and
turned.

As if restored to courage and self-possession by the sense of her
father's presence, Violante again took the hand of the visitor.
"Father," she said simply, "it is he--_he_ is come at last." And then,
retiring a few steps, she contemplated them both; and her face was
radiant with happiness--as if something, long silently missed and looked
for, was as silently found, and life had no more a want, nor the heart a
void.