her uncle the Cardinal, whom she loved with a rare and tender
devotion, her thoughts were occupied with a letter she had received
that morning from Rome,--a letter "writ in choice Italian," which
though brief, contained for her some drops of the essence of all the
world's sweetness, and was worded thus--

"MY OWN LOVE!--A century seems to have passed away since you left
Rome. The hours move slowly without you--they are days,--even
years!--but I feel your spirit is always with me! Absence for those
who love, is not absence after all! To the soul, time is nothing,--
space is nothing,--and my true and passionate love for you makes an
invisible bridge, over which my thoughts run and fly to your sweet
presence, carrying their delicious burden of a thousand kisses!--a
thousand embraces and blessings to the Angela and angel of my life!
From her devoted lover,

"Florian."

Her devoted lover, Florian! Yes; Florian Varillo--her comrade in
art, was her lover,--a genius himself, who had recognised HER genius
and who bowed before it, conquered and subdued! Florian, the creator
of exquisitely delicate landscapes and seascapes, with nymphs and
cupids and nereids and sirens all daintily portrayed therein,--
pictures so ethereal and warm and bright in colour that they were
called by some of the best Italian critics, the "amoretti" of
painting,--he, this wonderful man, had caught her soul and heart by
storm, in a few sudden, quickly-whispered words one night when the
moon was at the full, hanging high over the gardens of the Pincio,--
and, proud of her security in the love she had won, Angela had risen
by leaps and bounds to a magnificence of creative effort and