CHAPTER XXVII.

THE VEILED LADY.

On his arrival in Florence, Reginald found, instead of the friend he had expected to meet, only a letter, informing him that an unforeseen occurrence had delayed his departure from Rome, and that several weeks would elapse before he could leave that city. This letter gave Reginald every assurance that he Iwould find his friend at Genoa at the time he then proposed.

Happily for our traveller, there is no spot on earth where impatience may be more easily soothed or dispelled than in Florence,-fair Florence! where the stranger revels amid the greatest works of the greatest artists the world has ever seen-where nature shares the triumphs of art, and both are beheld in their perfection of beauty. "At evening from the top of Fiesolé," attained by the smooth road winding through groves of cypress mingled with the tender verdure of the olives; amid the porticoes of festooned vines forming the "Etrurian shades," that "high overarched embower" its classic heights, and overlooking the castellated city with its towers and domes, stand

ing "thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks in Vallombrosa," Florence shows fairest.

Reginald passed his evenings in these and similar contemplations of the lovely Val d'Arno. His mornings glided away in successive visits to the palazzi, the treasuries of art, often absorbed among the concentrated glories of the Tribune, where riches are enshrined which pale those of Aladdin's lamp, even though not found in the form of sparkling gems. On every side they rise, those enduring memorials of hands which have "lost their cunning" for centuries. There stands the magic statue, still enchanting the world, though discolored by time, and bearing the traces of barbarous desecration, repaired by the worshippers of art-there on the perishable canvas is stamped the impress of that heavenly thought that can never die, claiming affinity with ethereal spirits yet living, though long since passed from the scene of their earthly labors, and too often, alas! from the bitter trials that marked the earth-born but heavendirected sons of genius.

The fine garden of the Palazzo Pitti, in its proximity to the galleries of paintings that offer attractions almost equal to the tribune of the Ufizzi, invites a comparison of the beauties of nature and art. Reginald indulged in dreamy meditations beneath the soft shades of the Boboli, even when the sun was in vertical splendor, or caught from different points of view, in his evening rambles through its walks, prospects almost as distant and as fair as those commanded from the summit of Fiesolé.

These rambles, after a sojourn of several weeks,

had grown into a habit, and there were favorite spots where Reginald loved to linger, and which day after day he frequented. He was not naturally disposed to indolence, but there was something enervating in the soft summer air of this southern clime, and the cloudless sky, over which a light hazy veil seemed to be cast at mid-day, as if to soften the intensity of the sun's rays by partially intercepting them.

At that hour he sought the dense shades of the garden, and with a catalogue, or a volume of poetry as his companion, beguiled the quiet moments. At evening he was roused from his dreamy languor by the freshening breeze that swept from the Apennines over the bosom of the Arno, and ascended to different heights to watch the gorgeous effect of the Italian sun, "arraying in purple and gold the clouds that on his western throne attend."

In these excursions Reginald often encountered parties of wanderers, engaged like himself in observing the many objects of interest or curiosity that solicited their admiration.

The appearance of a stranger in his favorite haunts excited neither surprise nor special interest, even when the apparition came in the form of a lady, who returned day after day to one of the finest points of view, in the garden which he most frequented.

There was nothing peculiar in the aspect of this lady, and her dress, though neat and appropriate for a traveller, had no distinguishing features of the Italian costume to give it poetic or romantic interest. A figure that seemed youthful, from the elasticity of her step, was concealed by the ample folds of a silk man

tle, and her simple hat of Tuscan straw was half covered, by a veil, which served not only to preserve her complexion from the summer sun and air, but to screen her features entirely from view.

Even when engaged, as this lady often was, in sketching the distant landscape in an album, the veil was so disposed as to conceal her face, while her pencil was busily occupied in tracing the lines that had apparently awakened her enthusiasm.

Her visits were repeated daily to the same spot, and the sketch still remained unfinished, for after the pencil had followed the dictates of her hand and thought for half an hour at a time, the lines so carefully touched and retouched were impatiently rubbed out, as if the beautiful scene baffled her power to transfer it to her artistic repository.

This was all simple and natural, and there was nothing in the lady, or her veil, or her pencil, or her sketch that would have excited the least curiosity or interest under other circumstances. But Reginald was for the moment an idler, moreover he was an observer, and as a feature in his evening prospect, the lady was expected by him at the hour and at the spot she always selected.

The fair stranger was one evening engaged in her usual occupation, and her interest in the landscape before her was evidently heightened by the light and shade thrown over it by a rising cloud, that at one moment partially excluded the beams of the sun, leaving the valleys in deep shadow, while the mountain tops and even the towers and domes of the city glittered in the partial beams.

But the darker part of the picture soon predominated, and a peal of thunder startled the lady from her absorbing studies and occupation. Reginald had foreseen the catastrophe, but he was prepared to meet it, and it was a simple act of courtesy to offer the shelter of his large umbrella to protect the lady to her carriage, which he perceived was in waiting at the garden gate.

A thunder shower from the clouds that suddenly rise over either Alps or Apennines, darkening the blue heaven of Italy, may well be classed among the events worthy of record in that sunny region, and the shower from which Reginald sheltered the veiled lady, formed no exception to the general rule.

There was neither time nor breath for ceremony while the pitiless torrent poured itself with unsparing fury above their heads, and the lady unhesitatingly accepted the supporting arm that directed her less confident steps amid the driving wind and rain. Happily the walk to her carriage was not long, and she was soon placed in safety, while Reginald, declining her polite proposal to offer him a shelter in her turn, hastened back to his lodgings.

The following day found the garden restored to freshness and verdure by the shower that had revived the thirsty trees and flowers. The sun shone with wonted lustre, and the azure heaven smiled on the heights that surround the city, and on the fair city itself, as brightly as if a cloud had never disturbed their serenity.

In the evening, Reginald almost unconsciously wandered to the spot where he had so often seen the in