ormation as to how matters stand in Innsbruck, do you likewise seek
to know more about our faith. Lydia is still young. Let us put off the
final word to a later day." Thus it remained. Master Felice would have
willingly appeared in the character of an accepted lover, but as
Erastus permitted him to visit Lydia as before, he declared himself
satisfied for the time. When his work was over, he hastened to Klytia,
and sat joking and lounging at her side. She was ever gentle and kind
to him, but never cast her thoughtful quiet manner aside. She had
assumed a timid reserve, which forbade any too demonstrative love. The
excitement of decision once over the poor child felt herself to be
inwardly divided against herself. She loved, but whether Paolo, or
Felice she knew not; she was engaged, but the father forbade any public
acknowledgment. Good and gentle of disposition she suffered Felice to
love her, without however granting him the slightest rights. Usually,
when the artist visited her of an evening, her Dante lay ready, and by
compelling him to read aloud, she held his passion in due bounds. But
even the majesty of Dante's poetry became melodious song when read by
the loving artist, and we may well imagine what verses he most looked
forward to, in the hope, that the narrative of Francesca da Rimini
would serve to thaw her icy reserve. But Lydia had wisely looked over
the book beforehand, and was prepared against this would-be adopted
means. The fifth canto containing the story of Rimini's unhappy lovers,
lay open in its usual place, on the evening so much longed for by
Felice, but Lydia received him with maidenlike sedateness. He had
that day carefully curled his locks and held in his hand one of those
dark-red roses which had first told his love, but he had not the
courage to offer it to her, for she had moved her seat further from him
than on any previous evening. It is true he read beautifully that day,
or nearly as beautifully as "he," but as he was just about to begin the
story of the lovers, who also read together, "how Lancelot wrapped in
pure love," to "often did their eyes meet and lovingly rose the color
in their cheeks, and often did he kiss the smile of his beloved," she
closed in maidenly scorn the book and her "we won't read any more
to-night" dispelled in an exasperating manner Felice's hopes. Out of
humor and disappointed he sat near her turning over the leaves of
Lydia's prayer book. He found pressed therein a