e in getting married,--not to say in eloping?"

"Well, I trust that you will have enough of it this time."

"I cannot conceive that when a man has once married the woman he loves
he should ever look at another," said Nino, gravely.

"You are a most blessed fellow," I exclaimed.

Nino found my writing materials, which consisted of a bad steel pen,
some coarse ruled paper, and a wretched little saucer of ink, and
began writing an epistle to the contessina. I watched him as he wrote,
and I smoked a little to pass the time. As I looked at him I came to
the conclusion that to-day, at least, he was handsome. His thick hair
curled about his head, and his white skin was as pale and clear as
milk. I thought that his complexion had grown less dark than it used
to be, perhaps from being so much in the theatre at night. That takes
the dark blood out of the cheeks. But any woman would have looked
twice at him. Besides, there was, as there is now, a certain
marvellous neatness and spotlessness about his dress; but for his
dusty boots you would not have guessed he had been travelling. Poor
Nino. When he had not a penny in the world but what he earned by
copying music, he used to spend it all with the washerwoman, so that
Mariuccia was often horrified, and I reproved him for the
extravagance.

At last he finished writing, and put his letter into the only envelope
there was left. He gave it to me, and said he would go out and order
his mules to be ready.

"I may be gone all day," he said, "and I may return in a few hours. I
cannot tell. In any case, wait for me, and give the letter and all
instructions to the man, if he comes." Then he thanked me once more
very affectionately, and having embraced me he went out.

I watched him from the window, and he looked up and waved his hand. I
remember it very distinctly--just how he looked. His face was paler
than ever, his lips were close set, though they smiled, and his eyes
were sad. He is an incomprehensible boy--he always was.

I was left alone, with plenty of time for meditation, and I assure you
my reflections were not pleasant. O love, love, what madness you drive
us into, by day and night! Surely it is better to be a sober professor
of philosophy than to be in love, ever so wildly, or sorrowfully, or
happily. I do not wonder that a parcel of idiots have tried to prove
that Dante loved philosophy and called it Beatrice. He would have been
a sober professor, if that were true, and