Yes! she had a lover to whom she was engaged to be married, but, curiously enough, I knew nothing about this lover, not being intimate enough with Bianca to be the confidant of her tender little secret. This unknown lover was always away in other parts of Italy, and when he did visit Bianca it was during my absence, so I used to joke with the Signorina about this visionary being. But she, with one delicate finger on her lip and an arch smile of glee, would tell me that he--she never mentioned his name--that he had an actual existence, and some day I would see him in person at Verona. Well, here was Verona, here was Bianca, but the lover had not appeared, so I would have jestingly asked this Fairy of Midnight the reasons of his absence, had not the real grief expressed on her face deterred me. "Signorina, are you in trouble?" "Yes, yes! Signore, great trouble; but you cannot help me. No one can help me." "But perhaps I----" "No, Signore, it is useless. Come, you must have the lesson at once. The Maestro is dull to-day, he needs amusement; so come, the lesson." "It is very cruel of you to make a joke of my lesson, Signorina." Bianca made no reply to my jesting remark, but heaving a little sigh, placed the ivory baton in the hand of the Maestro and sat down at the piano. The mummy, finding his services required, woke up and had a little conversation with me before beginning the lesson. "Eh! Signor Inglése," he croaked--this being his name for me--"London is dark!" He had a fearful prejudice against London, which he had once visited at a foggy season, and always made the above remark to his English pupils, which no one ever thought of contradicting. "Yes, yes!" he said, nodding his old head like a Chinese mandarin; "London is always dark." "Yes, Maestro." "You've not been working?" "Indeed I have, Maestro." "Come then, Signor Inglése, we will see," and the lesson commenced. Oh, those lessons! what agonies I suffered during them, trying to attain the impossible! To how many fits of despair have I given way in failing time after time to manage my breathing! It was all breathing--a deep drawing in, a slow letting out--the exercise of internal muscles of which I had never heard even the name--the weariness of incessantly practising notes in a still, small voice hardly audible,--it was enough to discourage the most persevering. Some of the female pupils, I believe, cried with vexation when not able to do what was required by the severe Maestro, who denied the existence of the word "impossible" in connection with singing; but I, not being a woman, was reduced to swearing, which certainly relieved my feelings after a battle with a particularly aggravating exercise.