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The Arbuthnots had brought warm letters of introduction to the Prince and Princess M

and they soon became constant guests at the Palazzo.

Selfish and cold as were the Colonel and his lady, they were well-versed in the courtesies of life, high-bred, and polished in the extreme; the son was a mere fine gentleman, but the lovely Geraldine interested her Italian friends deeply, and was soon the delight of their circle: she sang divinely, nature had gifted her with a touching, clear, rich voice, and art had done its utmost to perfect it; she also spoke Italian with ease, though with a slightly foreign accent, and never did that soft language fall from lovelier lips.

Day after day Antonio Cellini saw Geraldine in every situation most calculated to fascinate man. Sometimes she would sit playfully on a low ottoman, and caress, or sing to, the Princess M's fairy daughter, and smile brightly as the child wound her long sunny ringlets round its little fingers and plaved with

her jewelled hands; sometimes she would flutter about the green-houses, gathering the sweetest flowers, and tastefully arranging them in marble vases, at other times, in more serious mood, she would ask Antonio to read her portions of her favourite Italian authors, and breathlessly would she listen to his melodious tones, and the eloquent blood would rush from her heart to her cheeks, and her blue eyes glisten with delight, as she heard his comments on their surpassing beauties; then she would ask him of his native province-its grand features and soft loveliness; and whilst politics engaged her father and the Prince, and Mrs. Arbuthnot sat wearying the poor Princess to death with her tiresome, egotistical conversation; these two young and enthusiastic beings discoursed away their hearts.

Antonio guessed but too well the nature of his tumultuous feelings. All was delicious calm in his mind when in the society of Geraldine ; when gazing on her changing cheek, and seeking to penetrate her feelings through the fringe

of her thick lashes-he reflected not-he scarcely thought-he only looked and loved!

But when she was gone, and Antonio was alone, fearful was the storm of contending feelings in his soul. He loved with all the passionate earnestness of an Italian, with all the romance of a poet, with the truth and devotedness of chivalry;-but who did he thus idolize? Was it one in his own station-one who might be won by his intensest exertions? Alas! no -it was a being so far removed from himthe nameless, obscure orphan, that he grew dizzy as he contemplated the gulph which separated them. Could it ever be that Geraldine, the scion of a noble house, gifted with faultless beauty, followed and worshipped by crowds of the young and noble;-could it be, that she would stoop to notice the love that consumed one so inferior as the friendless Antonio Cellini? Antonio asked himself these questions in agony of heart; but his nature was noble and determined, and be resolved to win Geraldine, even

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her jewelled hands;

sometimes she would

flutter about the green-houses, gathering the sweetest flowers, and tastefully arranging them in marble vases, at other times, in more serious mood, she would ask Antonio to read her portions of her favourite Italian authors, and breathlessly would she listen to his melodious tones, and the eloquent blood would rush from her heart to her cheeks, and her blue eyes glisten with delight, as she heard his comments on their surpassing beauties; then she would ask him of his native province-its grand features and soft loveliness; and whilst politics engaged her father and the Prince, and Mrs. Arbuthnot sat wearying the poor Princess to death with her tiresome, egotistical conversation; these two young and enthusiastic beings discoursed away their hearts.

Antonio guessed but too well the nature of his tumultuous feelings. All was delicious calm in his mind when in the society of Geraldine; when gazing on her changing cheek, and seeking to penetrate her feelings through the fringe

of her thick lashes-he reflected not-he scarcely thought-he only looked and loved!

But when she was gone, and Antonio was alone, fearful was the storm of contending feelings in his soul. He loved with all the passionate earnestness of an Italian, with all the romance of a poet, with the truth and devotedness of chivalry;—but who did he thus idolize? Was it one in his own station-one who might be won by his intensest exertions? Alas! no -it was a being so far removed from himthe nameless, obscure orphan, that he grew dizzy as he contemplated the gulph which separated them. Could it ever be that Geraldine, the scion of a noble house, gifted with faultless beauty, followed and worshipped by crowds of

the

young and noble; could it be, that she would stoop to notice the love that consumed one so inferior as the friendless Antonio Cellini? Antonio asked himself these questions in agony of heart; but his nature was noble and determined, and he resolved to win Geraldine, even

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