then I was booked to start, early on the following
morning, for the Neapolitan frontier, as
No. 3 in the coupé of a shabby green diligence,
and I should have preferred a night's unbroken
repose. I could hardly be tempted, even by my
friend's account of the treasures of classic art,
the Byzantine mosaics, the Greek intaglios, in
the Cardinal's saloons, and was quite deaf to his
praises of the beauty and grace of the fair
hostess. However, I did not wish to be churlish,
and I consented, groaning the while, to put on
my dress suit, and to accompany Crooke to the
"reception." Indeed, he made such a point of
my compliance, that I could hardly refuse, little
as I guessed the real reason of his eagerness.

The "reception" at the Campobasso Palace
differed in some respects from those dreary
parties at which I had previously been a guest
while at Rome. The huge mansion was brilliantly
lighted, the servants wore liveries that
were grotesque, certainly, but rich and new, and
there was no lack of music; a well-stored buffet,
and a crowd of company, amid which youth
and good looks were mingled in fair proportion.
It was a real party, in fact, with clean cards on
the tables, instead of the well-thumbed packs
that the old counts and abbés must have known
by heart, with a blaze of wax-candles, refreshments
that were meant to be eaten and imbibed,
good singing, and fresh toilettes. The saloons
were gorgeously furnished in the style of Louis
Quinze, and there were objects of art in even
greater profusion than Crooke had led me to
expect.

My friend introduced me to the Cardinal's
sister, a stiff old lady in velvet and diamonds,
whose name I did not catch, and to the Cardinal's
niece, Countess Minetta something, but
the latter somewhat curtailed the introduction
by giving me her hand with a sort of queenly
condescension, and observing in tolerable English
that she " was glad to see one of whom M.
Crooke had told her so much good. Her own
papa had been half an Englishman, and she regretted
to speak his language so imperfectly."

I do not think I could describe the Countess
Minetta if I were to try. I can only say that
she was a very beautiful creature, with a dark,
almost Spanish cast of face, which her black
dress and sparkling jewels set off to perfection,
that she seemed very young, and had a fawn-like
timidity of manner that was very charming.
But what pleased me most was her great kindness
to an undistinguished stranger like myself,
and her filial affection for her absent uncle, the
Cardinal. Of the latter she spoke with the
utmost pride and fondness, regretting that he
should have been away from Rome during my
sojourn there. His Eminence would have been
delighted to converse with a learned Inglese like
myself—ah! I must not be bashful about my
attainments—M. Crooke had told them all about
me—and I should have been sure to like the
Cardinal. Why not? Her uncle was a scholar,
a poet, like Petrarch, a father to his flock, the
tender protector of the poor, kind and benevolent
to all. Any one less conscientious than
himself, so his niece declared, would have
stayed away from his diocese, which his vicar
could administer, but Cardinal Campobasso was
a model archbishop. His age and infirmities,
alas! weighed every year more heavily upon him,
but never was he known to be deaf to the call
of duty.

Then Madame Minetta, begging my pardon
with the prettiest humility for having wearied
me with her egotistical praises of the good old
relative who had been as a parent to her, offered
to show me some of the Cardinal's rare stores
of curiosities. Very notable and exquisite were
many of the cameos and scraps of many-tinted
mosaic to which she called my attention, hurriedly
describing them in her low sweet voice,
but I could hardly distinguish one from the
other. I was fairly dazzled for the moment. It
was not that I was silly enough, or fickle enough,
to fall in love; my heart never swerved from
its allegiance to Emma, at home in England;
but there was something in so much loveliness
and excellence as that of the Cardinal's niece
that interested me very much. I fancied, too,
that she was not happy; there was a pensive
melancholy in her dark eyes, and a sad music
in her voice, that seemed to hint at hidden sorrows.
Perhaps she was inconsolable, I thought,
for the loss of her husband, Count something—
I only know that the name was a long and
sonorous one. Or could it be that she found
no congenial spirit in that gay and frivolous
society, amid which her lot was cast. How
noble, in any case, were her sentiments, and how
exquisite was her devotion to that good old
uncle, Cardinal Campobasso.

1 had plenty of time to think all this, for the
young countess could not, of course, neglect her
other guests, among whom were princes and
great ladies, French officers of the garrison,
Knights of Malta, and bishops, to spend all the
evening in showing Macedonian medallions and
Syracusan bronzes to the third master at St.
Winnipeg's. But as she glided gracefully
through the midst of the company, she never
passed me without a bright smile, and a word
or two in her pretty broken English. And she
introduced me to one or two persons, among
others a handsome young Roman lady, who
looked like Juno, but spoke little, and appeared
ignorant of all topics, save only her parish
church, its rich shrines and altar-pieces, and her
confessor, Father Bonifaccio, who preached there
in Lent, and her own, the countess's, brother.
The latter was a tall young officer in the Pope's
Noble Guard, very splendid and good humoured,
but without any of his sister's keenness of feeling
or grace of manner. Of Crooke I saw
little. He had many friends, and seemed very
busy indeed.

The party gradually broke up. The guests
took their leave, and I, like the rest, made my
bow to the Cardinal's sister in black velvet.
The niece I did not see, nor at the moment was
Crooke visible. But before I got clear of the
ante-chamber, Crooke hurried up and caught my
arm.