It was at a party in Florence--at the house of an Italian Countess--literary--artistic--dilettante--a party at which the rooms were crowded, and people went in and out and complained of the heat, while large and splendid Italian matrons--with eyes that one would hardly hope to see, save on the canvas of Guido, sat in indolent grace on the broad crimson divans, languidly fanning themselves, and murmuring soft scandals under cover of the music. There was much music at the Countess Circignani’s, and that night a young novice--the daughter of a Colonel in the Italian army--was led to the piano by the fair hand of the Countess herself, who entreated silence for her _protégée_. And then the sweet round voice arose, full of youth and freshness, in a joyous melody of Rossini’s--an air as full of trills and bright spontaneous cadences as a skylark’s song. He, Christian Harefield, the travelling Englishman, stood among the crowd and watched the fair face of the singer. He was struck with its beauty and sweetness; but his was not a nature prone to sudden passions. This was to be no new instance of love kindled by a single glance, swift as fire from a burning glass. Before the evening was ended, Mr. Harefield had been presented to Colonel Murano, and by the Colonel to the fair singer. The soldier was a patriot, burning for the release of his country from the Austrian yoke--full of grand ideas of unification, glorious hopes that pointed to Rome as the capital of a united Italy. He found the Englishman interested in the Italian question, if not enthusiastic. He was known to be rich, and therefore worthy to be cultivated. Colonel Murano cultivated him assiduously, gave him the entrance to his shabby but patriotic _salon_, where Mr. Harefield listened courteously while patriots with long hair, and patriots with short hair, discussed the future of Italy. The Colonel was a widower with a son and daughter--the girl newly released from the convent of an educational order, where her musical gifts had been cultivated to the uttermost--the son an incipient profligate, without the means of gratifying his taste for low pleasures. There was a nephew, a soldier and an enthusiast like his uncle, who spent all his evenings in the Colonel’s _salon_, singing with Beatrix Murano, or listening while she sang. From the hour in which he first loved Beatrix, Christian Harefield hated this cousin, with the grave, dark face, sympathetic manners, and exquisite tenor voice. In him the Englishman saw his only rival. Later, this young soldier, Antonio Murano, left Florence on military duty. The coast was clear, Mr. Harefield offered himself to the Colonel as a husband for his daughter--the Colonel responded warmly. He could wish no happier alliance for his only girl. She was young--her heart had never been touched. She could scarcely fail to reciprocate an attachment which did her so much honour.