_Ros._ You tell me he has not been seen to-day?

_Ber._ Save by your trusty servant here, who says
He saw his master, from without, unclose
The shutters of his laboratory while
The sun was yet unrisen. It is well;
This turning to the past pursuits of youth
Argues how much the aspect of to-day
Hath driven the ancient darkness from his brain.
And now, my dear Rosalia, let thy face
And thoughts and speech be drest in summer smiles,
And naught shall make a winter in our house.

_Ros._ Ah, sir, I think that I am happy.

_Ber._ Happy?
Why so, indeed, dear love, I trust thou art!
But thou dost sigh and contemplate the floor
So deeply, that thy happiness seems rather
The constant sense of duty than true joy.

_Ros._ Nay, chide me not, good sir; the world to me
A riddle is at best--my heart has had
No tutor. From my childhood until now
My thoughts have been on simple honest things.

_Ber._ On honest things? Then let them dwell henceforth
On love, for nothing is more honest than
True love.

_Ros._ I hope so, sir--it must be so!
And if to wear thy happiness at heart
With constant watchfulness, and if to breathe
Thy welfare in my orisons, be love,
Thou never shalt have cause to question mine.
To-day I feel, and yet I know not why,
A sadness which I never knew before;
A puzzling shadow swims upon my brain,
Of something which has been or is to be.
My mother coming to me in my dream,
My father taking to that room again
Have somehow thrilled me with mysterious awe.

_Ber._ Nay, let not that o'ercast thy gentle mind,
For dreams are but as floating gossamer,
And should not blind or bar the steady reason.
And alchemy is innocent enough,
Save when it feeds too steadily on gold,
A crime the world not easily forgives.
But if Rosalia likes not the pursuit
Her sire engages in, my plan shall be
To lead him quietly to other things.
But see, the door uncloses and he comes.

(_Enter Giacomo in loose gown and dishevelled hair._)

_Gia._ (_Not perceiving them._)
Ha, precious villains, ye are caught at last!

_Both._ Good-morrow, father.

_Gia._ Ah, my pretty doves!

_Ber._ Come, father, we are jealous of the art
Which hath deprived us all the day of thee.

_Gia._ Are ye indeed? (_Aside._) How smoothly to the air
Slides that word _father_ from his slippery tongue.
Come hither, daughter, let me gaze on thee,
For I have dreamed that thou wert beautiful,
So beautiful our very duke did stop
To