and flowers, every one of which she seemed to
recognise. The weather was beautiful. She
breathed with avidity the pure air which,
in imagination, brought to her the kisses and
caresses of her poor father! Her foster-father
was, doubtless, occupied with his bees; but his
wife?

Anielka opened the door of the cabin; all
was silent and deserted. The arm-chair on
which the poor old woman used to sit, was
overturned in a corner. Anielka was chilled
by a fearful presentiment. She went with a
slow step towards the bee-hives; there she
saw a little boy tending the bees, whilst the
old man was stretched on the ground beside
him. The rays of the sun, falling on his pale
and sickly face, showed that he was very ill.
Anielka stooped down over him, and said,
"It is I, it is Anielka, your own Anielka, who
always loves you."

The old man raised his head, gazed upon
her with a ghastly smile, and took off his
cap.

"And my good old mother, where is she?"
Anielka asked.

"She is dead!" answered the old man, and
falling back he began laughing idiotically.
Anielka wept. She gazed earnestly on the
worn frame, the pale and wrinkled cheeks, in
which scarcely a sign of life could be perceived;
it seemed to her that he had suddenly fallen
asleep, and not wishing to disturb him, she
went to the carriage for the presents. When
she returned, she took his hand. It was cold.
The poor old bee-keeper had breathed his
last!

Anielka was carried almost senseless back
to the carriage, which quickly returned with
her to the castle. There she revived a little;
but the recollection that she was now quite
alone in the world, almost drove her to
despair.

Her master's wedding and the journey to
Florence were a dream to her. Though the
strange sights of a strange city slowly restored
her perceptions, they did not her cheerfulness.
She felt as if she could no longer endure the
misery of her life; she prayed to die.

"Why are you so unhappy?" said the
Count Leon kindly to her, one day.

To have explained the cause of her wretchedness
would have been death indeed.

"I am going to give you a treat," continued
Leon. "A celebrated singer is to appear
tonight in the theatre. I will send you to hear
her, and afterwards you shall sing to me what
you remember of her performances."

Anielka went. It was a new era in her
existence. Herself, by this time, an artist,
she could forget her griefs, and enter with her
whole soul into the beauties of the art she
now heard practised in perfection for the first
time. To music a chord responded in her
breast which vibrated powerfully. During
the performances she was at one moment pale
and trembling, tears rushing into her eyes;
at another, she was ready to throw herself at
the feet of the cantatrice, in an ecstacy of
admiration. "Prima donna,"—by that name
the public called on her to receive their
applause, and it was the same, thought Anielka,
that Justiniani had bestowed upon her.
Could she also be a prima donna? What a
glorious destiny! To be able to communicate
one's own emotions to masses of entranced
listeners; to awaken in them, by the power
of the voice, grief, love, terror.

Strange thoughts continued to haunt her
on her return home. She was unable to sleep.
She formed desperate plans. At last she
resolved to throw off the yoke of servitude,
and the still more painful slavery of feelings
which her pride disdained. Having learnt
the address of the prima donna, she went
early one morning to her house.

On entering she said, in French, almost
incoherently, so great was her agitation—
"Madam, I am a poor serf belonging to a
Polish family who have lately arrived in
Florence. I have escaped from them; protect,
shelter me. They say I can sing."

The Signora Teresina, a warm-hearted,
passionate Italian, was interested by her
artless earnestness. She said, "Poor child!
you must have suffered much,"—she took
Anielka's hand in hers. "You say you can
sing; let me hear you." Anielka seated
herself on an ottoman. She clasped her hands
over her knees, and tears fell into her lap.
With plaintive pathos, and perfect truth of
intonation, she prayed in song. The Hymn
to the Virgin seemed to Teresina to be offered
up by inspiration.

The Signora was astonished. "Where,"
she asked, in wonder, "were you taught?"

Anielka narrated her history, and when
she had finished, the prima donna spoke
so kindly to her that she felt as if she had
known her for years. Anielka was Teresina's
guest that day and the next. After the Opera,
on the third day, the prima donna made her
sit beside her, and said:—

"I think you are a very good girl, and you
shall stay with me always."

The girl was almost beside herself with joy.

"We will never part. Do you consent,
Anielka?"

"Do not call me Anielka. Give me instead
some Italian name."

"Well, then, be Giovanna. The dearest
friend I ever had—but whom I have lost—was
named Giovanna," said the prima donna.

"Then, I will be another Giovanna to you."

Teresina then said, "I hesitated to receive
you at first, for your sake as well as mine;
but you are safe now. I learn that your
master and mistress, after searching vainly
for you, have returned to Poland."

From this time Anielka commenced an
entirely new life. She took lessons in singing
every day from the Signora, and got an
engagement to appear in inferior characters at
the theatre. She had now her own income,
and her own servant—she, who had till then