is eyes when waking, Capri a fairy
island in the distance, in the amethyst rocks of which Sirens might be
playing--that fair line of cities skirting the shore glittering white
along the purple water--over the whole brilliant scene Vesuvius rising
with cloudlets playing round its summit, and the country bursting out
into that glorious vegetation with which sumptuous nature decorates
every spring--this city and scene of Naples were so much to Clive's
liking that I have a letter from him dated a couple of days after the
young man's arrival, in which he announces his intention of staying
there for ever, and gives me an invitation to some fine lodgings in a
certain palazzo, on which he has cast his eye. He is so enraptured with
the place, that he says to die and be buried there even would be quite a
treat, so charming is the cemetery where the Neapolitan dead repose.

The Fates did not, however, ordain that Clive Newcome should pass all
his life at Naples. His Roman banker presently forwarded a few letters
to his address; some which had arrived after his departure, others which
had been lying at the Poste Restante, with his name written in perfectly
legible characters, but which the authorities of the post, according to
their custom, would not see when Clive sent for them.

It was one of these letters which Clive clutched the most eagerly. It
had been lying since October, actually, at the Roman post, though Clive
had asked for letters there a hundred times. It was that little letter
from Ethel, in reply to his own, whereof we have made mention in a
previous chapter. There was not much in the little letter. Nothing, of
course, that Virtue or Grandmamma might not read over the young writer's
shoulder. It was affectionate, simple, rather melancholy; described in a
few words Sir Brian's seizure and present condition; spoke of Lord
Kew, who was mending rapidly, as if Clive, of course, was aware of his
accident; of the children, of Clive's father, and ended with a hearty
"God bless you," to Clive, from his sincere Ethel.

"You boast of its being over. You see it is not over," says Clive's
monitor and companion. "Else, why should you have dashed at that letter
before all the others, Clive?" J. J. had been watching, not without
interest, Clive's blank face as he read the young lady's note.

"How do you know who wrote the letter?" asks Clive.

"I can read the signature in your face," says the other; "and I could
almost tell the c