But love is blind, and lovers cannot see.

-Merchant of Venice.

AT the close of a long summer's day under the skies of Italy, the
shades of twilight were deepening on a verdant and vine-clad
hillside of the Val d'Arno, when two lovers, who had evidently been
strolling together, sat down side by side under a natural trellis of
vines. The twilight hour of midsummer will lend enchantment to
almost any scene; but this is peculiarly the case in Italy, where
every shadow seems poetic-every view fit for the painter's canvass.

The gentleman was of frank and manly bearing, and as he had
approached the spot where they now sat, with the graceful figure of
his fair companion leaning upon his arm, he evinced that soft and
persuasive mien, that easy elegance of manner and polish in his
address, which travel and good society can alone impart. Around his
noble forehead, now bared to the gentle breeze, his long auburn hair
hung in waving ringlets, after the style of the period, while his
countenance was of that intelligent and thoughtful cast, tinted by a
shade of sorrow, which rarely fails to captivate the eye.

In person, he was rather tall, erect and well-proportioned, though
perhaps he was rather thin in flesh to appear to so good advantage
as he might have done, yet altogether he was of handsome form and
pleasant mien. His dress bespoke the hollowness of his purse,
notwithstanding he bore about him the indelible marks of a
gentleman; and the careful observer would have recognized in him the
artist that had separated from his companions on the Plaza at