never returned until the next day at early
dawn, which always now saw him at his
labours. The idea at once flashed across her
mind that he had found in Venice some
person on whom to lavish the riches of his
affection, and that he went every evening to
plead his passion at her feet. Jealousy took
possession of her. She spent a whole night in
reflection; she turned over in her mind
every supposition; and she rose, feverish
and ill.  That day, pleading illness, she
remained in her room, shut up with her
books.

About an hour after dark, Paolo, his hat
drawn over his eyes, his cloak wrapped round
him, and his mask on, stepped into a
gondola which awaited him, and started.
Another boat lay on the opposite side of
the canal, with curtains closely drawn.
Scarcely had the artist's been set in motion
than it followed. Paolo, who had never,
since his arrival in Venice, been watched or
followed, paid no attention to it. The
two gondolas then moved side by side
without remark, and that of Zustana stopped as
usual, allowed the artist to land, and
continued on its way. A man, also wrapped in
a cloak, masked, and with a hat and plumes,
leaped out also from the other gondola, and,
creeping close against the wall, followed him.
The stranger seemed, by his gazing at the
dirty walls and low shops—chiefly old clothes,
rag shops, and warehouses devoted to small
trades—very much surprised, but, for fear of
losing the track of the other, followed closely.

Suddenly Zustana disappeared. The other
moved rapidly forward in time to observe
that he had entered a dark alley, and was
ascending with heavy step a gloomy and
winding staircase. The stranger followed
cautiously, stepping in time with Paolo, and
feeling his way with his hands. Zustana only
halted when he reached the summit of the
house. He then placed a key in a door—
a blaze of light was seen, and he disappeared,
locking the door behind him. The man stood
irresolute, but only for a moment. The
house was built round a square court, like a
well: there was a terraced roof. Gliding
noiselessly along, the stranger was in the
open air; moving along like a midnight-thief
he gained a position whence the windows
of the rooms entered by Zustana were
distinctly visible.

A groan, a sigh from the stranger, who
sank behind a kind of pillar, revealed the
Countess. The groan, the sigh, was occasioned
by the astounding discovery she now made.

The room into which she was looking was
brilliantly lighted up, and beautifully
furnished, while beyond—for Clorinda could see
as plainly as if she had been in it—was a
small bedroom, and near the bed sat an old
woman, who was preparing to bring in a child
to Zustana. Just withdrawing herself from
the embrace of Zustana was a beautiful young
girl, simply and elegantly dressed—the
original of the Psyche which she had so much
admired. Now she understood all; that
look, which she had thought the consciousness
of his own beautiful creation, was for
the beloved original.

The child, a beautiful boy nearly a year
old, was brought to Zustana to kiss. Now,
all his savageness was gone; now, he stood
no longer the artist, the creator, the genius
of art; but the man. He smiled, he
patted the babe upon the cheek, he let it
clutch his fingers with its little hands, he
laughed outright a rich, happy, merry,
ordinary laugh; and then, turning to the
enraptured mother, embraced her once more, and
drew her to a table near the opened window.

"What progress to-day?" asked the painter
gaily.

"See," replied the young mother, handing
him a copy-book, and speaking in the
somewhat harsh dialect of a Sicilian peasant girl.
"I think, at last, I can write a page pretty
well."

"Excellent," continued the painter smiling.
"My Eleanora is a perfect little fairy. A
prettier handwriting you will not see. I need
give no more lessons."

"But the reading," said the young girl,
speaking like a timid scholar; "I shall never
please you there."

"You always please me," exclaimed
Zustana; "but you must get rid of your accent."

"I will try," said Eleanora earnestly, and
taking up a book she began to read, with
much of the imperfection of a young
schoolgirl, but so eagerly, so prettily, with such
an evident desire to please, that, as she
concluded her lesson, the artist clasped her
warmly to his bosom, and cried with love in
his eyes and in his tone, "My wife, how I
adore you!"

One summer morning a young man, with a
knapsack on his back, a pair of pistols in his
belt, a staff to assist him in climbing the hills
and mountains, and in crossing the torrents,
was standing on the brow of a hill overlooking
a small but delicious plain. It was half
meadow, half pasture land; here, trees; there,
a winding stream, little hillocks, green and
grassy plots; beyond, a lofty mountain, on
which hung a sombre-tinted pine forest; the
whole illumined by the joyous sun of Sicily,
which flooded all nature, and spread as it were a
violet and metallic veil over her. After gazing
nearly half an hour at the delicious landscape,
the young man moved slowly down a winding
path that led to the river side. Suddenly he
heard the tinkling of sheep-bells, the barking
of dogs, and looked around to discover whence
the sound came. In a small corner of pasture
land, at no great distance from the stream, he
saw the flock, and seated beneath the shadow
of a huge tree, a young girl.

He advanced at once towards her, not being
sure of his way.

She was a young girl of sixteen, the same