the celebrated painter Raphael Mengs, whom we shall meet again hereafter.

Now, as a faithful historian, I must give my readers the story of a
certain adventure in which were involved the honour and happiness of one
of the most charming women in Italy, who would have been unhappy if I had
not been a thoughtless fellow.

In the early part of October, 1746, the theatres being opened, I was
walking about with my mask on when I perceived a woman, whose head was
well enveloped in the hood of her mantle, getting out of the Ferrara
barge which had just arrived. Seeing her alone, and observing her
uncertain walk, I felt myself drawn towards her as if an unseen hand had
guided me.

I come up to her, and offer my services if I can be of any use to her.
She answers timidly that she only wants to make some enquiries.

"We are not here in the right place for conversation," I say to her; "but
if you would be kind enough to come with me to a cafe, you would be able
to speak and to explain your wishes."

She hesitates, I insist, and she gives way. The tavern was close at hand;
we go in, and are alone in a private room. I take off my mask, and out of
politeness she must put down the hood of her mantle. A large muslin
head-dress conceals half of her face, but her eyes, her nose, and her
pretty mouth are enough to let me see on her features beauty, nobleness,
sorrow, and that candour which gives youth such an undefinable charm. I
need not say that, with such a good letter of introduction, the unknown
at once captivated my warmest interest. After wiping away a few tears
which are flowing, in spite of all her efforts, she tells me that she