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trice's eyes at the words; however, she replied only with the thanks really due to his civility. Once, and only once, she drew aside the curtains of her vehicle, and then shrunk back in confusion at the number of people who turned the usual stare of the lazy on the passing carriage. They arrived at the convent-gate; and an old nun, who officiated as porteress, gave her in charge to another, who conducted her to the Abbess. The large wainscoted room, hung in a style with which she was familiar, raised her spirits into a sensation of home. The superior, a stately and pale though still handsome woman, received her politely but coldly—the coldness of indifference, not of dislike. She asked a few unimportant questions, and, ringing a small silver bell, the summons was answered by a nun, to whose care she consigned Beatrice.

The sister hurried her away, with all the delight of a child who has got a new plaything. Her desire to shew her the convent, and introduce her to her companions, was arrested by observing the faintness and fatigue under which she was sinking. With the kindest sympathy, she led her to the cell appointed for her reception, insisted on her lying down, helped

her to undress, brought her some warm soup, and then left her to that quiet which was the greatest of luxuries. A soft, fresh air, but sweet as if it had just passed over flowers, came from the open lattice; the young Spaniard drew one deep breath of enjoyment, and sank languidly on her pillow. In another moment she was asleep.

She slept for some hours. When she awoke, her apartment was filled with the warm crimson atmosphere of sunset-rich rose-stains fell on the wall and floor, which, even as she looked, grew fainter—and gradually the purple obscurity was only broken by the shadowy outline of a creeping and odoriferous shrub which had been trained round the casement. Suddenly a sound of music rose upon the air -it was the even-song of the convent; the notes of the organ and young sweet voices mingled in the hymn. The music—the fragrance of the flowers, whose odour was exhaling in the now falling dew-the languor of recent exertion-the sense of past dangers and present security-operated on Beatrice like the first and delicious stage of an opiate. All that was soothing in her hopes-all that was endearing to her memory, rose in their most

fairy fancies.

Beatrice listened till she lay

and wept with delight.

A gentle hand now opened the door, and her former kind guide appeared. "You look much better, but you must not get up-to-morrow you will be quite another creature. You see I have not forgotten you: so eat your supper, and go to sleep again."

Some boiled rice, with some exquisite conserves, and a glass of wine, aromatic as if made of flowers-and Beatrice finished her repast with a conviction that never had there been any thing half so delicious. A gastronome ought to fast sometimes on principle: we appreciate no pleasures unless we are occasionally debarred Restraint is the golden rule of

from them.

enjoyment.

CHAPTER XII.

"L'absence diminue les médiocres passions, et augmente les grandes; comme le vent éteint les bougies, et allume le feu."-ROCHEFOUCAULD.

OUR first love-letter-it is an epoch in our life-a task equally delightful and difficult. No lover ever yet addressed his mistress, and no mistress ever yet addressed her lover, without beginning the gentle epistle some dozen. times at least. There is so much to be said, and which no words seem exactly to say-the dread of saying too much is so nicely balanced by the fear of saying too little. Hope borders on presumption, and fear on reproach. One epithet is too cold—another we are scarcely entitled to use. Timidity and tenderness get in each other's way. The letter is sent, and immediately a thousand things are recollectedthose, too, we were most anxious to write-and every sentence that occurs is precisely the one we wish we had omitted. The epistle is opened

and read-with a little wonder, most probably not a little vexation, at its constrained style. True it is that no first love-letter ever yet gave satisfaction to either writer or reader. Its delight is another question.

When Beatrice sat down to write, it seemed the most simple thing in the world, to inform Lorraine of her arrival in Naples-it was quite another matter when the letter came really to be written. Between design and execution in such cases, a wide gulf is fixed. She drew her little table to the window, and began: "Dear Edward"- that was a great deal too familiarshe threw the sheet aside. "Dear Sir"-that was as much too formal the second sheet followed its predecessor.

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Then she resolved

merely to begin by some general phrase. They say Mr. Rogers takes sixteen hours and as many cups of coffee to a sentence, on the strength of which he keeps his bed for a week. Beatrice bestowed nearly as much time, and quite as much thought, on her composition. It was written on her last sheet of paper.

66

"TO THE HON. EDWARD LORRAINE.

Believing, as I do, that Beatrice de los Zoridos is not forgotten, I write a few brief

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