ne to each other, we looked in each other's faces with
enquiring eyes, not daring altogether to trust to our presentiments, and
endeavouring to divine which would be the hapless survivor to the other
three. We were to pass the summer at the lake of Como, and thither we
removed as soon as spring grew to her maturity, and the snow disappeared
from the hill tops. Ten miles from Como, under the steep heights of the
eastern mountains, by the margin of the lake, was a villa called the
Pliniana, from its being built on the site of a fountain, whose periodical
ebb and flow is described by the younger Pliny in his letters. The house
had nearly fallen into ruin, till in the year 2090, an English nobleman had
bought it, and fitted it up with every luxury. Two large halls, hung with
splendid tapestry, and paved with marble, opened on each side of a court,
of whose two other sides one overlooked the deep dark lake, and the other
was bounded by a mountain, from whose stony side gushed, with roar and
splash, the celebrated fountain. Above, underwood of myrtle and tufts of
odorous plants crowned the rock, while the star-pointing giant cypresses
reared themselves in the blue air, and the recesses of the hills were
adorned with the luxuriant growth of chestnut-trees. Here we fixed our
summer residence. We had a lovely skiff, in which we sailed, now stemming
the midmost waves, now coasting the over-hanging and craggy banks, thick
sown with evergreens, which dipped their shining leaves in the waters, and
were mirrored in many a little bay and creek of waters of translucent
darkness. Here orange plants bloomed, here birds poured forth melodious
hymns; and here, during spring, the cold snake emerged from the clefts, and
basked on the sunny terraces of rock.

Were we not happy in this paradisiacal retreat? If some kind spirit had
whispered forgetfulness to us, methinks we should have been happy here,
where the precipitous mountains, nearly pathless, shut from our view the
far fields of desolate earth, and with small exertion of the imagination,
we might fancy that the cities were still resonant with popular hum, and
the peasant still guided his plough through the furrow, and that we, the
world's free denizens, enjoyed a voluntary exile, and not a remediless
cutting off from our extinct species.

Not one among us enjoyed the beauty of this scenery so much as Clara.
Before we quitted Milan, a change had taken place in her habits and
manners. Sh