position, and come to the conclusion that he
would make Miss Colonna a formal offer of his
hand in the course of that same day.

"If she really doesn't love me," said he, half-
aloud, as he sat biting the end of his pen and
staring down at the unfinished page, "she'll
say so, and there will be an end of it. If she
does love me—and, somehow, I cannot believe
it!—why, although she is a million times too
good, and too beautiful, and too high-born for
an uncivilised mountaineer such as I, I will do
my best, with God's help, to be worthy of her
choice."

And then he thought of all the intoxicating
looks and smiles with which Olimpia had
received his awkward homage; and the more he
considered these things, the more clearly he
saw, and marvelled at, the distinction that had
befallen him.

And yet he was by no means beside himself
with happiness—perhaps, because, if the truth
must be confessed, he was not very deeply in
love. He admired Olimpia Colonna intensely.
He thought her the most beautiful and
high-minded woman under heaven; but, after all, he
did not feel for her that profound, and tender,
and passionate sympathy which had been the
dream of his boyhood. Even now, when most
completely under the spell of her influence, he
was vaguely conscious of this want. Even
now, in the very moment of anticipated triumph,
when his heart beat high at the thought of
winning her, he found himself wondering whether
he should be able to make her happy—whether
she would love his uncle Martin—whether she
would always be quite as much absorbed in
Italian politics and Italian liberty?

When he had arrived at this point, he was
interrupted by a tap at the door, and a voice
outside asking if there was "any admission?"

"Always, for you," replied Saxon; whereupon
the Earl opened the door and came in.

"There!" said he, "you're writing letters,
and don't want me."

"On the contrary, I have written all that
are to be posted to day, and am glad to be
interrupted. There's the rocking-chair at your
service."

"Thanks. May I take a cigar?"

"Twenty, if you will. And now, what news
since breakfast?"

"A good deal, I suspect," replied the Earl,
moodily. "Montecuculi's here."

"Who is Montecuculi?"

"One of our Central Committee men—an
excellent fellow; descended from the Montecuculis
of Ferrara. One of his ancestors poisoned
a Dauphin of France, and was torn to pieces for
it by four horses, ever so many centuries ago."

"He did no such thing," said Saxon. "The
Dauphin died of inflammation brought on by his
own imprudence; and Montecuculi was
barbarously murdered. It was always so in those
hateful middle ages. When a prince died, his
physicians invariably proclaimed that he was
poisoned; and then some wretched victim was sure
to be broken on the wheel, or torn to pieces."

"The physicians did it to excuse their want
of skill, I suppose," remarked the Earl.

"Or else because princes were too august to
catch colds and fevers, like other men."

"There spoke the republican."

"But where is this Montecuculi?"

"Shut up with Signer Colonna, in his den.
He brings important news from the seat of war;
but at present I only know that Garibaldi has
achieved some brilliant success, and that our
guests are leaving us in all haste."

"What, the Colonnas?"

"Yes, the Colonnas."

"But not to-day?"

"This evening, immediately after dinner."

Saxon's countenance fell.

"That is quick work," said he. " Where are
they going?"

"To London."

"Is anything the matter?"

"Nothing—except that a Genoese deputy is
hourly expected, and our friends are summoned
to meet him."

"Then they will come back to you again?"

"Not a chance of it. The present is an
important crisis, and we have a whole round of
special committees and public meetings coming
on in London and elsewhere. No—we shall
not see them down again at. Castletowers this
year. They will have more than enough of
active work on hand for the next week or two;
and then, no doubt, they will be off to Italy."

Saxon was silent. Having once resolved on
a course of action, it was not in him to be turned
aside by small obstacles; and he was now thinking
how, in the midst of all this hurry of departure,
he should obtain his interview with Miss
Colonna.

"This place will be as lively as a theatre by
daylight when you are all gone," observed the
Earl, presently.

"You must come up to town," replied Saxon.
"I had a note from Burgoyne this morning, in
which he says that London is fuller than ever."

Lord Castletowers shook his head.

"I shall run up occasionally for a few hours at
a time," said he, "while these meetings are being
held; but I shall not be able to make any stay."

"Why not?"

"Because I cannot afford it."

"Nonsense! What do you mean?"

"Simply what I say. I am a poor man, my
dear fellow—which fact, I believe, you have
heard me state before—and although I look
upon a good London hotel as the first stage on
the road to Paradise, and upon a fortnight in
town during the best of the season as pure
beatitude, I can seldom afford to indulge my
taste for either."

"But I should have thought, with a place
like this…."

"That's just what it is!" replied the Earl,
knocking off the ash from his cigar, and rocking
himself dismally to and fro. "It's a dear old
place, and I wouldn't exchange it for Aladdin's
palace of jewels; but it costs me every farthing
of my income merely to live in it. I was left,