ou as
if you were his daughter. If he will not consent, you shall not return at
all."

"Would to God it were so!"

Early the next morning I got a note from M. Querini requesting me to call
on him, as he wanted to speak to me on a matter of importance.

"We are getting on," said Marcoline. "I am very glad that things have
taken this turn, for when you come back you can tell me the whole story,
and I can regulate my conduct accordingly."

I found Querini and Morosini together. They gave me their hands when I
came in, and Querini asked me to sit down, saying that there would be
nothing in our discussion which M. Morosini might not hear.

"I have a confidence to make to you, M. Casanova," he began; "but first I
want you to do me the same favor."

"I can have no secrets from your excellency."

"I am obliged to you, and will try to deserve your good opinion. I beg
that you will tell me sincerely whether you know the young person who is
with you, for no one believes that she is your niece."

"It is true that she is--not my niece, but not being acquainted with her
relations or family I cannot be said to know her in the sense which your
excellency gives to the word. Nevertheless, I am proud to confess that I
love her with an affection which will not end save with my life."

"I am delighted to hear you say so. How long have you had her?"

"Nearly two months."

"Very good! How did she fall into your hands?"

"That is a point which only concerns her, and you will allow me not to
answer that question."

"Good! we will go on. Though you are in love with her, it is very
possible that you have never made any enquiries respecting her family."

"She has told me that she has a father and a mother, poor but honest, but
I confess I have never been curious enough to enquire her name. I only
know her baptismal name, which is possibly not her true one, but it does
quite well for me."

"She has given you her true name."

"Your excellency surprises me! You know her, then?"

"Yes; I did not know her yesterday, but I do now. Two months . . .
Marcoline . . . yes, it must be she. I am now certain that my man is not
mad."

"Your man?"

"Yes, she is his niece. When we were at London he heard that she had left
the paternal roof about the middle of Lent. Marcoline's mother, who is
his sister, wrote to him. He was afraid to speak to her yesterday,
because she looked so grand. He even thought he must be mistaken, and he
would have