oved that the subtlety of intelligence will never divine
the simplicity of the heart. The most dolorous of all moral tragedies
knit and unknit the most often in silence. It was in the afternoon,
toward six o'clock, that a servant came to announce Mademoiselle Hafner's
visit to the Contessina, busy at that moment reading for the tenth time
the 'Eglogue Mondaine,' that delicate story by Dorsenne. When Fanny
entered the room, Alba could see what a trial her charming god-daughter
of the past week had sustained, by the surprising and rapid alteration in
that expressive and noble visage. She took her hand at first without
speaking to her, as if she was entirely ignorant of the cause of her
friend's real indisposition. She then said:

"How pleased I am to see you! Are you better?"

"I have never been ill," replied Fanny, who did not know how to tell an
untruth. "I have had pain, that is all." Looking at Alba, as if to beg
her to ask no question, she added:

"I have come to bid you adieu."

"You are going away?" asked the Contessina. "Yes," said Fanny, "I am
going to spend the summer at one of our estates in Styria." And, in a low
voice: "Has your mother told you that my engagement is broken?" "Yes,"
replied Alba, and both were again silent. After several moments Fanny was
the first to ask: "And how shall you spend your summer?"--"We shall go to
Piove, as usual," was Alba's answer. "Perhaps Dorsenne will be there, and
the Maitlands will surely be." A third pause ensued. They gazed at one
another, and, without uttering another word, they distinctly read one
another's hearts. The martyrdom they suffered was so similar, they both
knew it to be so like, that they felt the same pity possess them at the
same moment. Forced to condemn with the most irrevocable condemnation,
the one her father, the other, her mother, each felt attracted toward the
friend, like her, unhappy, and, falling into one another's arms, they
both sobbed.

CHAPTER XI

THE LAKE DI PORTO

Her friend's tears had relieved sad Alba's heart while she held that
friend in her arms, quivering with sorrow and pity; but when she was
gone, and Madame Steno's daughter was alone, face to face with her
thoughts, a greater distress seized her. The pity which her companion in
misery had shown for her--was it not one more proof that she was right in
mistrusting her mother? Alas! The miserable child did not know that while
she was plunged in despair, there was in Rom