my old
friend, Sir Gordon Howard, himself.

For a few moments he was so totally engrossed by the meeting with his
grandaughter that he did not even perceive me. Indeed, his agitation was
as great as it might reasonably have been had years of absence separated
them, instead of the few brief hours of a twenty miles' drive; and it
was only as she said, "Are you forgetting to thank Mr. Templeton, Papa?"
that he turned round to greet me with all the warmth of his kindly
nature.

It was to no purpose that I protested plans already formed, engagements
made, and horses written for; he insisted on my staying, if not some
weeks--some days--and at last, hours, at the Villa Cimarosa. I might
still have resisted his kind entreaties, when Miss Howard, with a smile
and a manner of most winning persuasiveness, said, "I wish you would
stay,"--and------here I am!

CHAPTER V. _La Villa Cimarosa, October_

How like a dream--a delicious, balmy, summer night's dream--is this life
I am leading! For the first time have I tasted the soothing tranquillity
of domestic life. A uniformity, that tells rather of security than
sameness, pervades every thing in this well-ordered household, where all
come and go as if under the guidance of some ruling genius, unseen and
unheard. Sir Gordon, too, is like a father; at least as I can fancy a
father to be, for I was too early left an orphan to preserve my
memory of either parent. His kindness is even more than what we call
friendship. It is actually paternal. He watches over my health with
all the unobtrusive solicitude of true affection; and if I even hint at
departure, he seizes the occasion to oppose it, not with the warmth of
hospitality alone, but a more deeply-meaning interest that sometimes
puzzles me. Can it be that he recognises in my weakened frame and
shrunken cheek, greater ravages of disease than I yet feel or know of?
Is it that he perceives me nearer the goal than as yet I am aware? It
was yesterday, as we sat in the library together, running over the
pages of an almanac, I remarked something about my liking to travel by
moonlight, when, with a degree of emotion that amazed me, he said, "Pray
do not talk of leaving us; I know that in this quiet monotony there may
be much to weary you; but remember that you are not strong enough
for the world, did you even care to take your place in it as of old.
Besides,"--here he faltered, and it was with a great effort that he
resumed--"besides,