bts suddenly sprang up in
my bosom. There is something fearful in returning to those we love,
while yet uncertain what ills or changes absence may have effected. The
turbulence of my agitation shook my very frame. I spurred my horse to
redoubled speed; he was covered with foam when we both arrived panting
at the gateway that opened to the grounds around the villa. I left my
horse at a cottage and walked through the grounds, that I might regain
tranquillity for the approaching interview. I chid myself for having
suffered mere doubts and surmises thus suddenly to overcome me; but I
was always prone to be carried away by these gusts of the feelings.

On entering the garden everything bore the same look as when I had left
it; and this unchanged aspect of things reassured me. There were the
alleys in which I had so often walked with Bianca; the same shades
under which we had so often sat during the noontide. There were the
same flowers of which she was fond; and which appeared still to be
under the ministry of her hand. Everything around looked and breathed
of Bianca; hope and joy flushed in my bosom at every step. I passed a
little bower in which we had often sat and read together. A book and a
glove lay on the bench. It was Bianca's glove; it was a volume of the
Metestasio I had given her. The glove lay in my favorite passage. I
clasped them to my heart. "All is safe!" exclaimed I, with rapture,
"she loves me! she is still my own!"

I bounded lightly along the avenue down which I had faltered so slowly
at my departure. I beheld her favorite pavilion which had witnessed our
parting scene. The window was open, with the same vine clambering about
it, precisely as when she waved and wept me an adieu. Oh! how
transporting was the contrast in my situation. As I passed near the
pavilion, I heard the tones of a female voice. They thrilled through me
with an appeal to my heart not to be mistaken. Before I could think, I
felt they were Bianca's. For an instant I paused, overpowered with
agitation. I feared to break in suddenly upon her. I softly ascended
the steps of the pavilion. The door was open. I saw Bianca seated at a
table; her back was towards me; she was warbling a soft melancholy air,
and was occupied in drawing. A glance sufficed to show me that she was
copying one of my own paintings. I gazed on her for a moment in a
delicious tumult of emotions. She paused in her singing; a heavy sigh,
almost a sob followed. I could no