n the Rialto.

"'"Tonino," she said, "when you look at this wrinkled face of mine,
does not the faintest gleam dawn within you of a sense that you may
have known me in your very early days?"

"'"I have told you already," he answered, in a whisper like her own,
"that I feel drawn to you in a manner inexplicable to myself; but your
ill-favoured, wrinkled face has nothing to do with that. Rather, when I
look at your strange black flashing eyes, your pointed nose, your blue
lips, your long chin, your streaming ice-grey hair--when I listen to
your horrible cackling and laughing, and the strange, incoherent things
you say, I could almost turn from you with horror, and fancy that it is
some unholy art which you have at your command that draws me to you."

"'"Oh, Lord of Heaven!" she cried; "what evil spirit of hell suggests
such thoughts to you? Ah, Tonino! the woman who cared for you and
tended you in your infancy, who saved your life on that night of
terror, was I!"

"'In the sudden terror of his amazement he turned quickly round. But
when he looked in her horrible face, he angrily cried--

"'"Do you think you can befool me thus, you wicked old lunatic? The few
pictures from my childhood which remain with me are vivid and fresh.
That fine, handsome woman who took care of me--oh! I see her before my
eyes distinctly. She had a full face, with a rich colour, eyes with a
gentle, mild look in them, beautiful dark-brown hair, pretty hands;
she could not have been more than thirty; and you--an old hag of
ninety----"

"'"Oh, all ye saints!" she interrupted, with sobs; "what am I to do to
get my Tonino to believe that I am his faithful Margareta?"

"'"'Margareta'!" murmured Antonio; "'Margareta'! the name falls upon my
ear like music heard long ago, and long forgotten. But can it be
possible? It _cannot_ be possible."

"'She went on more tranquilly, with eyes fixed on the ground, on which
she traced marks and figures with the point of her staff. "The tall,
handsome man who petted you, carried you in his arms, and gave you
sweetmeats really was your father, Antonio; and it _was_ the beautiful
rich-toned German that we spoke. He was a well-known merchant of
Augsburg. His beautiful wife died when you were born. He left the place
because he could not bear to stay where she was buried, and came to
Venice, bringing one, your nurse, your faithful foster-mother, with
him. On that terrible night, which you remember, your father sank