ignor, if the lady died unmarried.'

'What lady?' said Emily.

'I am not come to that yet,' replied Annette, 'it is the lady I am going
to tell you about, ma'amselle: but, as I was saying, this lady lived in
the castle, and had everything very grand about her, as you may suppose,
ma'amselle. The Signor used often to come to see her, and was in love
with her, and offered to marry her; for, though he was somehow related,
that did not signify. But she was in love with somebody else, and would
not have him, which made him very angry, as they say, and you know,
ma'amselle, what an ill-looking gentleman he is, when he is angry.
Perhaps she saw him in a passion, and therefore would not have him. But,
as I was saying, she was very melancholy and unhappy, and all that, for
a long while, and--Holy Virgin! what noise is that? did not you hear a
sound, ma'amselle?'

'It was only the wind,' said Emily, 'but do come to the end of your
story.'

'As I was saying--O, where was I?--as I was saying--she was very
melancholy and unhappy a long while, and used to walk about upon the
terrace, there, under the windows, by herself, and cry so! it would have
done your heart good to hear her. That is--I don't mean good, but it
would have made you cry too, as they tell me.'

'Well, but, Annette, do tell me the substance of your tale.'

'All in good time, ma'am; all this I heard before at Venice, but what is
to come I never heard till to-day. This happened a great many years ago,
when Signor Montoni was quite a young man. The lady--they called her
Signora Laurentini, was very handsome, but she used to be in great
passions, too, sometimes, as well as the Signor. Finding he could not
make her listen to him--what does he do, but leave the castle, and never
comes near it for a long time! but it was all one to her; she was just
as unhappy whether he was here or not, till one evening, Holy St. Peter!
ma'amselle,' cried Annette, 'look at that lamp, see how blue it burns!'
She looked fearfully round the chamber. 'Ridiculous girl!' said Emily,
'why will you indulge those fancies? Pray let me hear the end of your
story, I am weary.'

Annette still kept her eyes on the lamp, and proceeded in a lower voice.
'It was one evening, they say, at the latter end of the year, it
might be about the middle of September, I suppose, or the beginning of
October; nay, for that matter, it might be November, for that, too, is
the latter end of the year, but that I can