ck streak of the mountains began, making a gap between the
leaden lake and the fog, which, little by little, was assuming a bluish
hue. Vague lights broke in the sky towards Osteno; at the end of the
eastern sea a new brightness trembled, streaks and spots, dark with the
breeze, were forming; the eye of the sun appeared and disappeared among
the whirling clouds above Osteno, until at last, growing rapidly larger,
it shone forth triumphant. The fog fled in all directions in sheets and
puffs, of which many sped past Oria, large and swift, while others cast
themselves upon the shore; but the largest rolled away into the far
east, where, behind and above a heavy white curtain, the mountains of
the lake of Como rose, glorious in the blue.

Uncle Piero called Luisa to witness the spectacle, the last splendid
scene of the drama, the triumph of the sun, the flight of the mists, the
glory of the hills. He admired nature in a simple manner, without the
refinement of the artistic sense, but with youthful ardour, and with the
ring of sincerity in his voice; his admiration was that of an old man
who has lived a life of purity, who has not exhausted the freshness of
his spirit, who still retains a certain simplicity of imagination.
"Look, Luisa!" he exclaimed, "we must indeed cry out, 'Glory be to the
Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost!'" Luisa did not answer, but went
quickly indoors, that she might not see that white enclosure beyond the
kitchen-garden that was drawing her so strongly, with its tacit cry of
reproach and grief. She had gone there that morning at six o'clock, and
had remained an hour, seated on the wet grass.

The uncle remained on the terrace lost in contemplation until the moment
of departure arrived. Had he been a vain poet he might have imagined
that Valsolda was offering him this farewell spectacle to speed him on
his way; that she wished to show herself more beautiful than he had,
perhaps, ever seen her before. However, these poetic fancies did not
come to him, and, besides, his journey was to be so short. But the image
of Maria came to him instead; he saw her running round him, he took her
upon his knee, and repeated the old rhyme to her:

Proud shade of the river
Of Missipipi----

"Enough!" he sighed. "It was a terrible thing!" and in answer to a
summons from Cia he went slowly towards the little garden where Luisa
was awaiting him, ready to go down to the boat. "Here I am," said he.
"And you, Ci