been obliged to serve herself. She acquired
the Italian language rapidly, and soon passed
for a native of the country.

So passed three years. New and varied
impressions failed, however, to blot out the
old ones. Anielka arrived at great
perfection in her singing, and even began to
surpass the prima donna, who was losing her
voice from weakness of the chest. This sad
discovery changed the cheerful temper of
Teresina. She ceased to sing in public; for
she could not endure to excite pity, where she
had formerly commanded admiration.

She determined to retire. "You," she
said to Anielka, "shall now assert your claim
to the first rank in the vocal art. You will
maintain it. You surpass me. Often, on
hearing you sing, I have scarcely been able
to stifle a feeling of jealousy."

Anielka placed her hand on Teresina's
shoulder, and kissed her.

"Yes," continued Teresina, regardless of
everything but the bright future she was
shaping for her friend. " We will go to Vienna
—there you will be understood and
appreciated. You shall sing at the Italian Opera,
and I will be by your side—unknown, no
longer sought, worshipped—but will glory in
your triumphs. They will be a repetition of
my own; for have I not taught you? Will
they not be the result of my work?"

Though Anielka's ambition was fired, her
heart was softened, and she wept violently.

Five months had scarcely elapsed, when a
furore was created in Vienna by the first
appearance, at the Italian Opera, of the Signora
Giovanna. Her enormous salary at once
afforded her the means of even extravagant
expenditure. Her haughty treatment of male
admirers only attracted new ones; but in
the midst of her triumphs she thought often
of the time when the poor orphan of
Pobereze was cared for by nobody. This
remembrance made her receive the flatteries of
the crowd with an ironical smile; their fine
speeches fell coldly on her ear, their eloquent
looks made no impression on her heart: that,
no change could alter, no temptation win.

In the flood of unexpected success a new
misfortune overwhelmed her. Since their
arrival at Vienna, Teresina's health rapidly
declined, and in the sixth month of Anielka's
operatic reign she expired, leaving all her
wealth, which was considerable, to her
friend.

Once more Anielka was alone in the world.
Despite all the honours and blandishments
of her position, the old feeling of desolateness
came upon her. The new shock destroyed
her health. She was unable to appear on the
stage. To sing was a painful effort; she grew
indifferent to what passed around her. Her
greatest consolation was in succouring the
poor and friendless, and her generosity was
most conspicuous to all young orphan girls
without fortune. She had never ceased to
love her native land, and seldom appeared
in society, unless it was to meet her countrymen.
If ever she sang, it was in Polish.

A year had elapsed since the death of the
Signora Teresina when the Count Selka, a
rich noble of Volkynia, at that time in Vienna,
solicited her presence at a party. It was
impossible to refuse the Count and his lady,
from whom she had received great kindness.
She went. When in their saloons, filled with
all the fashion and aristocracy in Vienna, the
name of Giovanna was announced, a general
murmur was heard. She entered, pale and
languid, and proceeded between the two rows
made for her by the admiring assembly, to the
seat of honour beside the mistress of the house.

Shortly after, the Count Selka led her to
the piano. She sat down before it, and
thinking what she should sing, glanced round
upon the assembly. She could not help
feeling that the admiration which beamed
from the faces around her was the work of
her own merit, for had she neglected the
great gift of nature—her voice, she could not
have excited it. With a blushing cheek, and
eyes sparkling with honest pride, she struck
the piano with a firm hand, and from her
seemingly weak and delicate chest poured
forth a touching Polish melody, with a voice
pure, sonorous, and plaintive. Tears were in
many eyes, and the beating of every heart
was quickened.

The song was finished, but the wondering
silence was unbroken. Giovanna leaned
exhausted on the arm of the chair, and cast
down her eyes. On again raising them, she
perceived a gentleman who gazed fixedly at
her, as if he still listened to echoes which had
not yet died within him. The master of the
house, to dissipate his thoughtfulness, led him
towards Giovanna. "Let me present to you,
Signora," he said, "a countryman, the Count
Leon Roszynski."

The lady trembled; she silently bowed,
fixed her eyes on the ground, and dared not
raise them. Pleading indisposition, which
was fully justified by her pallid features, she
soon after withdrew.

When on the following day Giovanna's
servant announced the Counts Selka and
Roszynski, a peculiar smile played on her lips;
and when they entered, she received the latter
with the cold and formal politeness of a
stranger. Controlling the feelings of her heart,
she schooled her features to an expression of
indifference. It was manifest from Leon's
manner, that without the remotest recognition,
an indefinable presentiment regarding
her possessed him. The Counts had called
to know if Giovanna had recovered from her
indisposition. Leon begged to be permitted
to call again.

Where was his wife? why did he never
mention her? Giovanna continually asked
herself these questions when they had
departed.

A few nights after, the Count Leon arrived
sad and thoughtful. He prevailed on Giovanna