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 Rome and in her imm