what had become of her. I
walked past the palace yesterday and saw that it was occupied; but I took
for granted it had changed hands."

"The Countess Scarabelli," said my friend, "brought it to her husband as
her marriage-portion."

"I hope he appreciated it! There is a fountain in the court, and there
is a charming old garden beyond it. The Countess's sitting-room looks
into that garden. The staircase is of white marble, and there is a
medallion by Luca della Robbia set into the wall at the place where it
makes a bend. Before you come into the drawing-room you stand a moment
in a great vaulted place hung round with faded tapestry, paved with bare
tiles, and furnished only with three chairs. In the drawing-room, above
the fireplace, is a superb Andrea del Sarto. The furniture is covered
with pale sea-green."

My companion listened to all this.

"The Andrea del Sarto is there; it's magnificent. But the furniture is
in pale red."

"Ah, they have changed it, then--in twenty-seven years."

"And there's a portrait of Madame de Salvi," continued my friend.

I was silent a moment. "I should like to see that."

He too was silent. Then he asked, "Why don't you go and see it? If you
knew the mother so well, why don't you call upon the daughter?"

"From what you tell me I am afraid."

"What have I told you to make you afraid?"

I looked a little at his ingenuous countenance. "The mother was a very
dangerous woman."

The young Englishman began to blush again. "The daughter is not," he
said.

"Are you very sure?"

He didn't say he was sure, but he presently inquired in what way the
Countess Salvi had been dangerous.

"You must not ask me that," I answered "for after all, I desire to
remember only what was good in her." And as we walked back I begged him
to render me the service of mentioning my name to his friend, and of
saying that I had known her mother well, and that I asked permission to
come and see her.

9th.--I have seen that poor boy half a dozen times again, and a most
amiable young fellow he is. He continues to represent to me, in the most
extraordinary manner, my own young identity; the correspondence is
perfect at all points, save that he is a better boy than I. He is
evidently acutely interested in his Countess, and leads quite the same
life with her that I led with Madame de Salvi. He goes to see her every
evening and stays half the night; these Florentines keep the most
extraord