consciousness of their strength.

By a singular caprice of nature, the charm of her face was, in some
degree, contradicted by a marble forehead, on which lay an almost
savage pride, and from which seemed to emanate the moral instincts of
a Corsican. In that was the only link between herself and her native
land. All the rest of her person, her simplicity, the easy grace of
her Lombard beauty, was so seductive that it was difficult for those
who looked at her to give her pain. She inspired such keen attraction
that her old father caused her, as matter of precaution, to be
accompanied to and from the studio. The only defect of this truly
poetic creature came from the very power of a beauty so fully
developed; she looked a woman. Marriage she had refused out of love to
her father and mother, feeling herself necessary to the comfort of
their old age. Her taste for painting took the place of the passions
and interests which usually absorb her sex.

"You are very silent to-day, mesdemoiselles," she said, after
advancing a little way among her companions. "Good-morning, my little
Laure," she added, in a soft, caressing voice, approaching the young
girl who was painting apart from the rest. "That head is strong,--the
flesh tints a little too rosy, but the drawing is excellent."

Laure raised her head and looked tenderly at Ginevra; their faces
beamed with the expression of a mutual affection. A faint smile
brightened the lips of the young Italian, who seemed thoughtful, and
walked slowly to her easel, glancing carelessly at the drawings and
paintings on her way, and bidding good-morning to each of the young
girls of the first group, not observing the unusual curiosity excited
by her presence. She was like a queen in the midst of her court; she