have been worse than useless; to have left him, for ever so short a
time, would have been cruel, unnatural. Here then was a new trial for
my affections. I wrote to Bianca an account of my return and of my
actual situation; painting in colors vivid, for they were true, the
torments I suffered at our being thus separated; for to the youthful
lover every day of absence is an age of love lost. I enclosed the
letter in one to Filippo, who was the channel of our correspondence. I
received a reply from him full of friendship and sympathy; from Bianca
full of assurances of affection and constancy.

Week after week, month after month elapsed, without making any change
in my circumstances. The vital flame, which had seemed nearly extinct
when first I met my father, kept fluttering on without any apparent
diminution. I watched him constantly, faithfully--I had almost said
patiently. I knew that his death alone would set me free; yet I never
at any moment wished it. I felt too glad to be able to make any
atonement for past disobedience; and, denied as I had been all
endearments of relationship in my early days, my heart yearned towards
a father, who, in his age and helplessness, had thrown himself entirely
on me for comfort. My passion for Bianca gained daily more force from
absence; by constant meditation it wore itself a deeper and deeper
channel. I made no new friends nor acquaintances; sought none of the
pleasures of Naples which my rank and fortune threw open to me. Mine
was a heart that confined itself to few objects, but dwelt upon those
with the intenser passion. To sit by my father, and administer to his
wants, and to meditate on Bianca in the silence of his chamber, was my
constant habit. Sometimes I amused myself with my pencil in portraying
the image that was ever present to my imagination. I transferred to
canvas every look and smile of hers that dwelt in my heart. I showed
them to my father in hopes of awakening an interest in his bosom for