come to her. I accompanied her in the gondola, but as she was to be alone, I remained with the sisters whilst she went to the bed of the dying.

66 I saw Annunciata," said Maria. "You have received that which she has commissioned me to convey to you."

"And she said?" I asked.

"Give that to Antonio, the improvisatore; but, unknown to any one.' She spoke of you, spoke as a sister might as a good spirit might speak; and I saw blood-blood upon her lips. She cast up her eyes in death, and "— Here Maria burst into tears.

I silently pressed her hand to my lips; thanked her for her pity, for her goodness, in going to Annunciata.

I hurried away, and, entering a church, prayed for the dead.

Never did I meet with such great kindness and friendship as from this moment in the house of the Podesta. I was a beloved brother to Rosa and Maria, who endeavored to anticipate every wish; even in the veriest trifles I saw evidences of their solicitude for me.

I visited Annunciata's grave. The church-yard was a floating ark, with high walls—an island garden of the dead. I saw a green plot before me, marked with many black crosses. I found the grave for which I sought. "Annunciata" was its sole inscription. A fresh, beautiful garland of laurels hung on the cross which marked it, unquestionably a gift from Maria and Rosa. I thanked them both for this kind attention.

How lovely was Maria in her gentleness! What a wonderful resemblance had she to my image of beauty, Lara! When she cast down her eyes, it seemed to me that they were, spite of the improbability, the same person.

About this time I received a letter from Fabiani. I was now in the fourth month of my residence in Venice. This astonished him. He thought that I should not spend longer time in this city, but visit Milan or Genoa. But he left it quite to me to do whatever seemed the best to myself.

That which detained me thus in Venice was that it was my

city of sorrow. As such it had greeted me on my arrival, and here my life's best dream had dissolved itself in tears. Maria and Rosa were to me affectionate sisters, Poggio a love-worthy, faithful friend. I should find nobody like them; but, nevertheless, we must part. In this my sorrow found its nourishment. Yes, hence - hence ! that was my resolve! I wished to prepare Rosa and Maria for it; it was necessary that they should be made acquainted with it. In the evening I was sitting with them in the great hall, where the balcony goes over the canal. Maria wished that the servant should bring in the lamp, but Rosa thought that it was much more charming in the clear moonlight.

66

Sing to us, Maria," said she; "sing to us that beautiful song which thou learnt about the Troglodite cave. Let Antonio hear it."

Maria sang a singular, quiet cradle-song to a low, strange melody. The words and the air melted one into the other, and revealed to heart and thought the home of beauty under the ethereally clear waves.

"There is something so spiritual, so transparent, in the whole song !" said Rosa.

"Thus must spirits reveal themselves out of the body!" exclaimed I.

"Thus floats the world's beauty before the blind!" sighed Maria.

"But then it is not really so beautiful when the eyes can see it?" asked Rosa.

"Not so beautiful, and yet more beautiful!" replied Maria. Rosa then told me what I had already heard from Poggio, that Maria had been blind, and that her brother had given sight to her eyes. Maria mentioned his name with love and gratitude; told me how childish her ideas had then been about the world around her. about the warm sun, about human beings, about the broad-leaved cactuses, and the great temples. "In Greece there are many more than there are here," remarked she, suddenly; and there was a pause in her relation.

"How the strong and the beautiful in sound," continued she, "suggested to me colors. The violets were blue — the

sea and heaven were blue also, they told me; and the fragrance of the violet taught me how beautiful heaven and the sea must be. When the bodily eye is dead, the spiritual eye sees more clearly. The blind learn to believe in a spirit world. Everything which they behold reveals itself from this!"

I thought of Lara with the blue violets in her dark hair. The fragrance of the orange-trees led me also to Pæstum, where violets and red gillyflowers grow among the ruins of the temple. We talked about the great beauty of nature, about the sea and the mountains, and Rosa longed after her beautiful Naples.

I then told them that my departure was near, and that I, in a few days, must leave Venice.

"You will leave us?" said Rosa, astonished. "We had not the slightest idea of that."

"Will you not come again to Venice?" inquired Maria; come again to see your friends."

Yes, yes, certainly!" exclaimed I. And although that had not been my plan, I assured them that, from Milan, I would return to Rome by Venice. But did I myself believe so?

I visited Annunciata's grave, took a leaf from the garland which hung there, as if I should never return; and that was the last time that I came there! That which the grave preserved was dust. In my heart existed the impression of its beauty, and the spirit dwelt with Madonna, whose image it was. Annunciata's grave, and the little room where Rosa and Maria extended to me their hands at parting, alone were witness to my tears and my grief.

"May you find a noble wife who will supply the loss which your heart has sustained!" said Rosa, at our parting. "Bring her some time to my arms. I know that I shall love her, as you have taught me to love Annunciata!"

"Come back happy!" said Maria.

I kissed her hand, and her eyes rested with an expression of deep emotion upon me. The Podesta stood with a sparkling glass of champagne, and Poggio struck up a merry trav

elling song about the rolling wheels and the bird's song in the free landscape. He accompanied me in the gondola as far as Fusina. The ladies waved their white handkerchiefs from the balcony.

How much might happen before we saw each other again? Poggio was merry to an excess; but I felt very plainly that it was not natural. He pressed me vehemently to his breast, and said that we would correspond industriously. "Thou wilt tell me about thy beautiful bride, and don't forget about our wager!" said he.

"How canst thou jest at this moment?" said I. “Thou knowest my determination.”

We parted.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE REMARKABLE OBJECTS IN VERONA. THE CATHEDRAL THE MEETING AT THE TRIUMPHAL ARCH OF

OF MILAN.

THE BLUE GROTTO.

HE carriage rolled away. I saw the green Bronta, the weeping-willows, and the distant mountains. Towards evening I arrived in Padua. The church of St. Antonius, with its seven proud domes, saluted me in the clear moonlight. All was animation and cheerfulness under the colonnade of the street; but I felt myself a stranger and alone.

In the sunshine all appeared to me still more unpleasing. Onward, yet further onward! Travelling enlivens and chases away sorrow, thought I, and the carriage rolled forward.

The country was all a great plain, but freshly green, as the Pontine Marshes. The lofty weeping-willows hung, like great cascades, over the gardens, around which stood altars with the holy image of the Madonna; some of them were bleached by time; the walls even on which they were painted were sunk in ruins, but in other places also stood newly painted pictures of the Mother and Child. I remarked, that the vetturino lifted his hat to the new pictures, the old and faded he seemed not to observe. It amused me wonderfully. Perhaps, however, I saw more in it than there really was. Even the holy, pure image of the Madonna herself was overlooked and forgotten because the earthly colors were faded.

I passed through Vicenza, where the art of Palladio could cast no ray of light over my troubled heart, on to Verona, the first of all the cities which attracted me. The amphitheatre led me back to Rome, and reminded me of the Coliseum; it is a pretty little model of that, more distinct, and not laid waste by barbarians. The spacious colonnades are converted into warehouses, and in the middle of the arena was erected