Then there came on her a vehement resentment against poor Helen, that
almost took the character of scorn or hate,--its excess startled herself.
"Am I grown so mean?" she said; and tears that humbled her rushed to her
eyes. "Can so short a time alter one thus? Impossible!"

Randal Leslie rang at the front gate, inquired for Violante, and,
catching sight of her form as he walked towards the house, advanced
boldly and openly. His voice startled her as she leaned against one of
the dreary trees, still muttering to herself,--forlorn. "I have a letter
to you from your father, Signorina," said Randal; "but before I give it
to your hands, some explanation is necessary. Condescend, then, to hear
me." Violante shook her head impatiently, and stretched forth her hand
for the letter. Randal observed her countenance with his keen, cold,
searching eye; but he still withheld the letter, and continued, after a
pause,

"I know that you were born to princely fortunes; and the excuse for my
addressing you now is, that your birthright is lost to you, at least
unless you can consent to a union with the man who has despoiled you of
your heritage,--a union which your father would deem dishonour to
yourself and him. Signorina, I might have presumed to love you, but I
should not have named that love, had your father not encouraged me by his
assent to my suit."

Violante turned to the speaker, her face eloquent with haughty surprise.
Randal met the gaze unmoved. He continued, without warmth, and in the
tone of one who reasons calmly, rather than of one who feels acutely,

"The man of whom I spoke is in pursuit of you. I have cause to believe
that this person has already intruded himself upon you. Ah, your