body and prostration of spirit. When her dressing-maid
Giovanna came at her summons, she informed her that a gentleman had
twice called to see her, but left no name or card. "Let no one be
admitted to-day but the manager of the opera," said Rosa. "I will
dress now; and if Mamma Balbino is at leisure, I should like to have
her come and talk with me while I breakfast."

"Madame has gone out to make some purchases," replied Giovanna. "She
said she should return soon, and charged me to keep everything quiet,
that you might sleep. The Signor is in his room waiting to speak to
you."

"Please tell him I have waked," said Rosa; "and as soon as I have
dressed and breakfasted, ask him to come to me."

Giovanna, who had been at the opera the preceding evening, felt the
importance of her mission in dressing the celebrated Senorita Rosita
Campaneo, of whose beauty and gracefulness everybody was talking. And
when the process was completed, the _cantatrice_ might well have been
excused if she had thought herself the handsomest of women. The glossy
dark hair rippled over her forehead in soft waves, and the massive
braids behind were intertwisted with a narrow band of crimson velvet,
that glowed like rubies where the sunlight fell upon it. Her morning
wrapper of fine crimson merino, embroidered with gold-colored silk,
was singularly becoming to her complexion, softened as the contact was
by a white lace collar fastened at the throat with a golden pin. But
though she was seated before the mirror, and though her own Spanish
taste had chosen the strong contrast of bright colors, she took no
notice of the effect produced. Her face was turned toward the
window, and as she gazed on the morning sky, all unconscious of its
translucent brilliancy of blue, there was an inward-looking expression
in her luminous eyes that would have made the fortune of an artist, if
he could have reproduced her as a Sibyl. Giovanna looked at her with
surprise, that a lady could be so handsome and so beautifully dressed,
yet not seem to care for it. She lingered a moment contemplating the
superb head with an exultant look, as if it were a picture of her
own painting, and then she went out noiselessly to bring the
breakfast-tray.

The Senorita Campaneo ate with a keener appetite than she had ever
experienced as Rosabella the recluse; for the forces of nature,
exhausted by the exertions of the preceding evening, demanded
renovation. But the services of the cook w