feel a right to repeat, because she has paid
for it."

It was thus they criticised her. Just as many
aunts and uncles, and some papas and mammas,
too, are occasionally criticised by those younger
members of the family who are prone to be very
caustic as to the mode certain burdens are borne,
the weight of which has never distressed their
own shoulders. And this, not from any
deficiency of affection, but simply through a habit
which, in the levity of our day, has become
popular, and taught us to think little of the ties
of parentage, and call a father a Governor.

CHAPTER XX. AGAIN AT ORTA.

"THERE is a stranger arrived, Signora, who
has been asking for you," said the landlord of
the little inn at Orta, as Miss Grainger reached
the door. "He has ordered a boat, but, feeling
poorly, has lain down on a bed till it is ready.
This is his servant," and he pointed, as he spoke,
to a dark-visaged and very handsome man, who
wore a turban of white and gold, and who made
a deep gesture of obeisance as she turned towards
him. Ere she had time to question him as to
his knowledge of English, a bell rung sharply,
and the man hurried away to return very
speedily, and, at the same instant, a door opened
and Calvert came towards her, and, with an air
of deep emotion, took her hand and pressed it
to his lips.

"This is too kind, far too kind and
considerate of you," said he, as he led her forward
to a room.

"When I got your note," she began, in a
voice a good deal shaken, for there was much in
the aspect of the man before her to move her,
"I really did not know what to do. If you desired
to see me alone, it would be impossible to do
this at the villa, and so I bethought me that the
best way was to come over here at once."

"Do you find me much changed?" he asked,
in a low, sad voice.

"Yes, I think you are a good deal changed.
You are browner, and you look larger, even taller,
than you did, and perhaps the beard makes you
seem older."

This was all true, but not the whole truth,
which, had she spoken it, would have said, that
he was far handsomer than before. The features
had gained an expression of dignity and elevation
from habits of command, and there was a lofty
pride in his look which became him well, the more
as it was now tempered with a gentle courtesy
of manner which showed itself in every word and
every gesture towards her. A slight, scarcely
perceptible baldness, at the very top of the forehead,
served to give height to his head, and add to the
thoughtful character of his look. His dress, too,
was peculiar, and probably set off to advantage
his striking features and handsome figure. He
wore a richly embroidered pelisse, fastened by a
shawl at the waist, and on his head, rather
jauntily set, a scarlet fez stitched in gold, and
ornamented with a star of diamonds and emeralds.

"You are right," said he, with a winning but
very melancholy smile. "These last two years
have aged me greatly. I have gone through a
deal in them. Come," added he, as he
seated himself at her side, and took her hand in
his, "come, tell me what have you heard of me?
Be frank, tell me everything."

"Nothing—absolutely nothing," said she.

"Do you mean that no one mentioned me."

"We saw no one. Our life has been one of
complete unbroken solitude."

"Well, but your letters; people surely wrote
about me?"

"No," said she, in some awkwardness, for
she felt as though there was something offensive
in this oblivion, and was eager to lay it to the
charge of their isolation. "Remember what I
have told you about our mode of life."

"You read the newspapers, though! You
might have come upon my name in them!"

"We read none. We ceased to take them.
We gave ourselves up to the little cares and
occupations of our home, and we really grew to
forget that there was a world outside us."

Had she been a shrewd reader of expression,
she could not fail to have noticed the intense
relief her words gave him. He looked like one
who hears the blessed words Not Guilty! after
hours of dread anxiety for his fate. "And am
I to believe," asked he, in a voice tremulous
with joy, "that from the hour I said farewell, to
this day, that I have been to you as one dead
and buried and forgotten?"

"I don't think we forgot you; but we rigidly
observed our pledge to you, and never spoke of
you."

"What is there on earth so precious as the
trustfulness of true friendship?" burst he in,
with a marked enthusiasm. "I have had what
the world calls great successes, and I swear to
you I'd give them all, and all their rewards twice
told, for this proof of affection; and the dear
girls, and Florence—how is she?"

"Far better than when you saw her. Indeed,
I should say perfectly restored to health. She
walks long walks, and takes rides on a mountain
pony, and looks like one who had never known
illness."

"Not married yet?" said he, with a faint
smile.

"No; he is coming back next month, and they
will probably be married before Christmas."

"And as much in love as ever—he, I mean?"

"Fully; and she too."

"Pshaw! She never cared for him; she
never could care for him. She tried it—did her
very utmost. I saw the struggle, and I saw its
failure, and I told her so."

"You told her so!"

"Why not? It was well for the poor girl
that one human being in all the world should
understand and feel for her. And she is
determined to marry him?"

"Yes; he is coming back solely with that
object."

"How was it that none of his letters spoke
of me? Are you quite sure they did not?"

"I am perfectly sure, for she always gave
them to me to read."