tters waiting for me. The first was a
brief note to this effect: "A faithful heart, which intends honourably
and kindly towards you, expects you this evening." It gave an address,
but no name--merely "Your old friend." The second was from the same
hand, and read: "Come, Antonio! The terror of the last unfortunate
moment of our parting is now well over. Come quickly! Delay not a moment
in coming!" The letters were obviously from Santa.

My mind was made up not to see her again. We left for Rome....

The Palazzo Borghese was now my home. Eccellenza received me with the
greatest kindness, but all the family continued to use the old teaching
tone and depreciating mode of treatment. Thus six years went by; but
somehow my protectors did not realise that I was no longer a boy, and my
dependence gave them the right to make them let me feel the bitterness
of my position. Even my talent as poet and improvisatore was by no means
taken seriously at the palace.

Happiness was brought into my life once more by Flaminia, "the little
abbess," who came home to have her last glimpse of the world before
taking the veil. She had grown tall and pale of complexion, with an
expression of wonderful gentleness in her features. She recalled our
early friendship, when she used to sit on my knee and make me draw
pictures for her and tell her stories. From her, at any rate, I suffered
no humiliation, and from day to day our friendship grew closer. I told
her about Bernardo and Annunciata, and about Lara, who became
inexpressibly dear to her. I also endeavoured to make her reconsider her
decision to take the veil and immure herself for life; but her whole
education and inclination tended towards that goal. At last the day
itself came--a day of great solemnity and state. Flaminia was dead and
buried--and Elizabeth the nun, the bride of Heaven, arose from the bier!

_V.--The Sorrowful Wayfarer_

In my sadness of heart I thought of my childhood and old Domenica, whom
I had not seen for many months. I went out to the Campagna. Domenica had
died six months back! When I returned I was seized by a violent fever,
from which I recovered but slowly. It was six months after Flaminia had
taken the veil that the doctor allowed me to go out.

My first walk was to the grey convent where she now passed her
monotonous days. Every evening I returned, and often I stood gazing at
her prison and thinking of Flaminia as I used to know her. One evening
Fabiani f