ded peasant appeared, his red shirt open, showing his sunburnt
chest. He ran up to the open door, a letter in his hand. Seeing Enrica
sitting on the low wall, he stopped and made her a rustic bow.

"Who are you?" Enrica asked, her heart beating wildly.

"Illustrissima," and the man bowed again, "I am Giacomo--Giacomo
protected by his reverence Fra Pacifico. You have heard of Giacomo?"

Enrica shook her head impatiently.

"Surely you are the Signorina Enrica?"

"Yes, I am."

"Then this letter is for you." And Giacomo stepped up and gave it
into her outstretched hand. "I was to tell the illustrissima that the
letter had come express from Lucca to Fra Pacifico. Fra Pacifico could
not bring it down himself, because the wife of the baker Pietro is
ill, and he is nursing her."

Enrica took the letter, then stared at Giacomo so fixedly, before he
turned to go, it haunted him many days after, for fear the signorina
had given him the evil-eye.

Enrica held the letter in her hand. She gazed at it (standing on the
spot where she had taken it, midway between the door and the low wall,
a glint of sunshine striking upon her hair, turning it to threads of
gold) in silent ecstasy. It was Nobili's first letter to her. His name
was in the corner, his monogram on the seal. The letter came to her in
her loneliness like Nobili's visible presence. Ah! who does not recall
the rapture of a first love-letter!--the tangible assurance it brings
that our lover is still our own--the hungry eye that runs over every
line traced by that dear hand--the oft-repeated words his voice
has spoken stamped on the page--the hidden sense--the half-dropped
sentences--all echoing within us as note to note in chords of music!

Enrica's eyes wandered over the address, "To the Noble Signorina
Enrica Guinigi, Corellia," as if each word had been some wonder. She
dwelt upon every crooked line and twist, each tail and flourish, that
Nobili's hand had traced. She pressed the letter to her lips, then
laid it upon her lap and gazed at it, eking out every second of
suspense to its utmost limit. Suddenly a burning curiosity possessed
her to know when he would come. With a gasp that almost stopped her
breath she tore the cover open. The paper shook so violently in her
unsteady hand that the lines seemed to run up and down and dance.
She could distinguish nothing. She pressed her hand to her forehead,
steadied herself, then read:

ENRICA: When this comes to you I a