ng or warm imagination; she, too, would know
how to profit by these treasures of art. The frivolous enjoyments
that please me would be beneath her. Perhaps she would teach me better
things; perhaps I might turn from mere sensual pleasure to higher and
purer sources of happiness."

"Will Mademoiselle permit me to try this wreath?" said Nina, advancing
with a garland of white roses, which she gracefully placed around Kate's
head.

A half cry of delight burst from Kate as she saw the effect in the
glass.

"Beautiful, indeed!" said Nina, as though in concurrence with an
unspoken emotion.

"But, Nina, I scarcely like this it seems as though I cannot tell what
I wish as though I would desire notice I, that am nothing that ought to
pass unobserved."

"You, Mademoiselle," cried Nina, and for the first time a slight warmth
coloring the tone of her manner, "you, Mademoiselle, the belle, the
beauty, the acknowledged beauty of Florence!"

"Nina! Nina!" cried Kate rebukingly.

"I hope Mademoiselle will forgive me. I would not for the world fail in
my respect," said Nina, with deep humility; "but I was only repeating
what others spoke."

"I am not angry, Nina, at least, not with you," said Kate, hurriedly.
"With myself, indeed, I 'm scarcely quite pleased. But who could have
said such a silly thing?"

"Every one, Mademoiselle, every one, as they were standing beneath the
terrace t' other evening. I overheard Count Labinski say it to Captain
Onslow; and then my Lady took it up, and said, 'You are quite right,
gentlemen; there is nothing that approaches her in beauty.'"

"Nina! dear Nina!" said Kate, covering her flushed face with both hands.

"The Count de Melzi was more enthusiastic than even the rest. He vowed
that he had grown out of temper with his Raffaelles since he saw you."

A hearty burst of laughter from Kate told that this flattery, at least,
had gone too far. And now she resumed her seat at the writing-table.
It was of the Splugen Pass and Como she had been writing; of the first
burst of Italy upon the senses, as, crossing the High Alps, the land of
the terraced vine lay stretched beneath. She tried to fall back upon the
memory of that glorious scene as it broke upon her; but it was in vain.
Other and far different thoughts had gained the mastery. It was no
longer the calm lake, on whose mirrored surface snow-peaks and glaciers
were reflected; it was not of those crags, over which the wild-fig and
the olive