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their companions, but the generality noted not his existence.

At length the concert began, and the most renowned performers in Europe assisted in it. Antonio loved music passionately, and in listening to the delicious warbling of the deeptoned pathos of-and the energetic bursts ofhe forgot his isolation, and was once more the lofty poet whose own feelings form his world. Oh music! blessed gift of heaven-who may paint thy transcendant powers, thy soothing influence?

The concert ceased, and the company adjourned to the ball-room; Antonio had not noticed their departure, but remained wrapt in his own reflections, till his attention was aroused by the entrance of a fresh party, who had only just arrived. It consisted of a fine military-looking man, and a proud, stately matron, apparently his wife; they were followed by a young girl about nineteen or twenty, who bore the stamp of nobility on every movement.

A strange emotion stirred Antonio's heart as he gazed on this beautiful being-he seemed to

behold at length the realization of that angel-
form which had visited him in his happiest ima-
ginings. She was indeed beautiful, not with
the beauty of Antonio's native land; that
passionate, dark, and voluptuous beauty. No;
her's was more ethereal, something nearer akin
to our imperfect conception of angels. A pro-
fusion of fair ringlets veiled her youthful cheeks,
and as she moved, their hues of gold danced in
the bright lamplight; her eyes were large, soft
yet brilliant; their tinge was that of the spring
violet, as they lay half-concealed beneath their
thick dark fringes; her complexion bespoke her
country; no land save fair England could have
produced such an one. The pure and delicate
skin lay like a snowy and transparent veil over
the delicate tracery of the blue veins, and the
rose in her cheek increased or diminished with
each word or movement.
She was tall and

slight, but exquisitely formed, and her fair
round arm and tapering fingers were models of
beauty. Antonio's gaze was rivetted on her as
she walked up the long room, and as she passed

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him, she unveiled the full loveliness of those deep-blue eyes to him, as the heavy lashes parted fully; but when she encountered his intense and passionate look, they fell again, and the blood crimsoned her cheek. They passed on into the ball-room, and Antonio followed, and placing himself in a window-frame where the breath of rich exotics fanned his temples, he watched every movement of this enchanting creature, like one spellbound. He saw her graceful form flitting about in the gay dance he shared not; he saw the sweet blush of virgin modesty on her polished brow, as the whisper of general admiration reached her ear; he caught the delicate perfume of the flowers in her bosom as she swiftly passed him, and heard her low, silvery voice speaking in an unknown tongue to one who hung enamoured over her chair; he watched her narrowly, and perceived that, although the joyousness of youth and innocence was in her manner to every one, there was no individual in that titled crowd whose salutation

called forth a deeper expression in those violet eyes, or kindled a warmer glow on her cheek. It seemed to poor Antonio, enough happiness to gaze unchecked on this peerless being throughout the long evening, and when the company dispersed and he was once more in the solitude of his own chamber, it appeared to him like a bright dream-that delicious concert, those perfumed rooms, and that fair girl.

This new star in the Florentine world was an English girl; her father and mother, Colonel and Mrs. Arbuthnot, were allied to all the first families in England, the land of real aristocracy; and never did there exist two people more thoroughly imbued with a sense of their own dignity, than this couple. The Colonel considered that he had fulfilled his a cold, heartless, and

destiny in marrying highly-born heiress, who had brought him an heir to his large estates, and a lovely daughter. He looked upon his son as born solely for the purpose of inheriting his name and property, and the son was the counterpart of his father.

Mrs. Arbuthnot was a softened edition of her husband, and would have been completely thunderstruck if any one had hinted that her beautiful daughter Geraldine might have a choice of her own in the disposal of her affections. Of course Geraldine must marry, and of course her husband must be rich and of ancient family, but beyond that, what could a woman require in a husband?-as to genius and mind and all that sort of thing it was very well for those who had their bread to earn by it, but it would be quite superfluous, and even unbecoming, in a high-born damsel

or matron.

Unfortunately for Geraldine these sentiments found no echo in her heart; she actually had the presumption to entertain ideas of her own on the subjects of love and marriage; and moreover, to complete her unworthiness, she possessed talent of the highest order, and a mind keenly alive to all that is great and truly noble. Poor girl! she was doubtless very degenerate, but nature was in fault!

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