enter that crowded saloon alone, and he and his sister were already gone.

There was a Scotch lady residing at Florence, the young widow of a very old husband, who had bequeathed her a fortune of about two thousand a-year. Mrs. Arden had the reputation of being extremely fashionable and worldlyminded, and perhaps she was; but she was not heartless, and the unfortunate had never been known to appeal to her in vain. An accidental circumstance had made her slightly acquainted with the Marchesa at the commencement of the winter season, and she had shown so true an interest in her, and had quietly done her so many little unobtrusive acts of kindness, that Lucy had sometimes admitted her when she would not have seen any one else; and thus she had learnt to feel on more intimate terms with her than with any other lady in Italy.

The same tact which had at once enabled Mrs. Arden to perceive that Lucy was unhappy, prevented her from asking any questions, or endeavouring to force herself on her confidence; and, in the absence of Mademoiselle Monti, her good looks and pleasant manner had won upon the Marchese, who showed every disposition to encourage the acquaintance between her and his wife. To Mrs. Arden, therefore, Lucy resolved to write, and ask her to call for her in her way to the palazzo, and give her a seat in her carriage, if she had one disengaged. On looking at her watch, she found she had no time to lose; but she knew that Mrs. Arden was always late; so she despatched her note, and sat down to her toilette. While dressing, she received a favourable answer, with an intimation that she was not to hurry, as her friend would wait for her as long as she pleased. However, the Marchesa was ready before the carriage was announced; and, as she glanced at her reflection in the mirror before going, it was with something of the exultant feeling of former days, that she saw how very pretty and graceful she looked in her elegant attire. Something, too, of the bright expression of old times shone this evening upon her fair countenance; and when, after kissing her sleeping child, she joined Mrs. Arden in her carriage, the latter could not repress an exclamation of admiration, saying "Ah, ma chère, vous aurez un grand succès ce soir!”

As they drove along, she told Lucy that the Court ball

was on a scale of great splendour, and would probably be unusually well attended, as it was the birthday of the Grand Duchess. Mrs. Arden talked and laughed gaily till they reached their destination; and when they were safely deposited in the ante-room, Lucy felt her heart beating with a feeling more akin to pleasure than apprehension, at the prospect of the brilliant scene before her.

CHAPTER XV.

In truth it was a brilliant scene! The suite of state apartments, so magnificent in themselves, and actually dazzling with light, and glittering with jewels; the assemblage of the nobles of almost every European nation; the enlivening strains of music resounding through the rooms-struck Lucy forcibly, although it was not her first introduction to such a picture, and she recalled the impression it had made upon her when she had beheld it as a complete novice. Mrs. Arden had been joined, on leaving her carriage, by two Englishmen-one her brother, Sir Richard M'Naghten; the other, a Mr. Smythe. She consigned her friend to the care of her own relation, while she accepted the escort of Mr. Smythe. As Lucy passed through the rooms on the arm of Sir Richard, her appearance excited an universal murmur of pleasure and surprise from the varied throng. Those who had met her in the gay world three seasons before, and had marvelled at her unaccountable retirement from it, now marvelled no less at her sudden return; those to whom she was a stranger were eagerly inquiring her name, and passing their comments upon her beauty. And, indeed, among the many fair ones around her, the Marchesa Monti shone forth conspicuous, if not actually as the belle, yet in the foremost ranks of loveliness. She wore the splendid jewels belonging to her husband's family, which had been re-set for her at the time of her marriage; and these contrasted strikingly with the lightness of her dress, which was almost girlish in its simplicity.

"Don't you admire my beautiful friend, Mr. Smythe?" said Mrs. Arden as they walked along.

"Yes," he returned, "her beauty is beyond a doubt; but you know I am not very enthusiastic as a general admirer

of the fair sex.' (He was an aspirant for the widowed hand that leaned upon his arm.) "But who is she? for I have not the slightest idea, though her face and manner prove her to be one of our countrywomen."

"You are right; she is English herself, but the wife of an Italian. She is the Marchesa Monti."

"Good Heavens!" exclaimed Mr. Smythe; “what can have induced her to come here to-night? Why, is not the Marchesa Monti the beautiful Englishwoman whose husband shuts her up because

He was interrupted by Lucy turning round to Mrs. Arden, and observing that she had not yet been able to distinguish the Marchese. Just then she felt a soft touch upon her arm, and heard Francesca's voice, in its blandest tones, addressing her—

"Lucia, carina, do my eyes deceive me? Is it really you?" "Even so, Francesca," returned her sister-in-law; "and now, can you tell me where to look for Fabio?"

"I think I can discover him, for I was talking to him a few minutes ago. If you please, I will guide you to where

I left him."

Sir Richard offered her his disengaged arm, which she accepted; and they passed out into one of the smaller saloons, where refreshments were to be found. They had no sooner entered it than Lucy caught a glimpse of her husband, and her first impulse was to leave her companions and hasten to him; but, too soon, she saw that which arrested her movements, and seemed to freeze the blood in her veins with horror and astonishment.

On a sofa, in a recess at the end of the chamber, sat Fabio; and by his side was a lady, whose dark flashing eye, and foreign complexion, proclaimed her to have been born and nurtured beneath a southern sky. She was, beyond all question, the handsomest of all whose presence graced the entertainment that night; but there was something in the style of her beauty, and in her whole deportment, which spoke little of that purity-that spotless mind-which is generally the characteristic of our fair countrywomen. She and Fabio were at present the sole occupants of this apartment; and they were so engaged with one another that they did not perceive Lucy, who had stepped on in advance of her companions, and was standing immediately before

them. The Spaniard (for such she was) was reclining in a languishing attitude upon the couch, her full dark eye fixed upon the Marchese, in whose hand her own was clasped, and who was pouring into her unreluctant ear his tale of lawless love, in words as glowing and impassioned as ever he had addressed to his unfortunate wife. And, of these words, some reached her ear as she stood before her rival; enough to convince her of the fearful truth. Never, in the coldest moments of their estrangement, had she dreamt that her husband loved another, or that all hope of brighter days was at an end; never, for one instant, had she pictured to herself the unimaginable bitterness of this hour. But the very extremity of her despair gave her strength-her womanly pride and scorn of his baseness came to her aid—she did not faint, nor utter an exclamation; and only her blanched cheeks revealed in the slightest degree the awful struggle within. By this time the quick eye and ear of the lady had detected that they were no longer alone; and, hastily withdrawing her hand from the fervent grasp of Monsieur Monti, she placed her finger on her lips, and looked towards the spot where Lucy stood, as if rooted to the floor. Fabio glanced in the same direction, and a fearful oath escaped him when he caught sight of his wife. Madame de la Fontaine had no idea who the intruder was, and attributed Fabio's displeasure only to their having been surprised at a tender moment, a circumstance which disturbed her but little, as she was not now listening for the first time to a similar avowal. So she said

"Zitto! Zitto! Fabio; you will be overheard. We had better rejoin the others."

But he had already approached Lucy; and anger is no name for the smothered passion of his whispered accents, as he addressed her thus

"I have to thank you, Signora, for giving me, in addition to all other tokens of your attachment, this last, this crowning proof! But I swear by all that is sacred, you shall live to repent having turned spy upon your husband."

And, as if resolved upon humiliating her to the utmost, he turned; and, taking her hand, he formally presented his wife to her rival. But he was mistaken in Lucy; once aroused, as her gentle spirit had been that evening, her dignity supported her through all. She bowed with cold and