n assist you with
hands, eyes, heart, mind--with my whole being.'

'What matters it? What harm will it do these flowers to wait for us?
I promise you to keep this garland so carefully, that it shall look
quite new on the day when it shall encircle my head; and then it will
seem to all others but an ordinary wreath: but to us--to me--oh, what
charms it will have! It will have been born, as it were, and have
grown with our love; it will have remained to me in memory of you
when you were obliged to leave me for a time; it will have spoken to
me of you when absent; will have a thousand times sworn love to me
for you. I shall have consulted, and kissed it a thousand times, till
that day in which I shall be yours! Do you hear that word, Edoardo?
Yours--yours for ever! never more to leave you!--to be divided from
you only by death!'

'That will indeed be a blessed day--the loveliest day of our life!
The desire of devoting all the powers of my mind to your happiness
will then become a right. Poor Sophia, you know not yet what
happiness is: so young, so good; you have hitherto met with thorns
only in your path. Poor Sophia, I desire no other glory in this world
than that of being able to make you feel the sweet that Providence in
pity mingles with the bitter of human existence. There is no
sweetness in the life of mortals that is not the offspring of love.'

'Yes,' added Sophia, 'when love is united with constancy. But what
are you daubing at, Edoardo? You are actually putting red on orange
leaves. Where have you learned botany? And what does that rose
signify? Is not this a bride's wreath, and are not bridal wreaths
always made of orange flowers? Do you know what I mean to do with
those roses? Ah, you would never guess. I shall make of them a
funeral crown. Here, take these leaves, and reach me the palette. You
have positively learned nothing all the time you have been seeing me
make flowers.'

A servant entered the room, saying, 'There is no post to Venice
either to-day or to-morrow: the Signor Edoardo cannot set out before
Friday.'

'Friday!' exclaimed Sophia, 'vile day!' and with a clouded
countenance she silently resumed her self-imposed task. Edoardo, on
the contrary, seemed glad of the delay.

'No matter; but,' he added, 'is not this a trick of yours--a plot
concocted by you and Luigia to prevent me from leaving Padua?'

'You mistake, Edoardo; I would wish rather to hasten your departure.'

'I am very much obli