As Harley spoke, Helen rose from the piano, and, approaching Violante, placed her hand caressingly on the Italian's shoulder. Violante shivered, and shrunk away. The eyes both of Harley and Helen followed her. Harley's eyes were very grave and thoughtful. "Is she not changed--your friend?" said he, looking down. "Yes, lately--much changed. I fear there is something on her mind--I know not what." "Ah!" muttered Harley, "it may be so; but at your age and hers, nothing rests on the mind long. Observe, I say the mind--the heart is more tenacious." Helen sighed softly, but deeply. "And therefore," continued Harley, half to himself, "we can detect when something is on the mind--some care, some fear, some trouble. But when the heart closes over its own more passionate sorrow, who can discover! who conjecture! Yet you at least, my pure, candid Helen--you might subject mind and heart alike to the fabled window of glass." "O, no!" cried Helen involuntarily. "O, yes! Do not let me think that you have one secret I may not know, or one sorrow I may not share. For, in our relationship--_that_ would be deceit." He pressed her hand with more than usual tenderness as he spoke, and shortly afterward left the house. And all that night Helen felt like a guilty thing--more wretched even than Violante. CHAPTER V. Early the next morning, while Violante was still in her room, a letter addressed to her came by the Post. The direction was in a strange hand. She opened it, and read in Italian what is thus translated: "I would gladly see you, but I can not call openly at the house in which you live. Perhaps I may have it in my power to arrange family dissensions--to repair any wrongs your father may have sustained. Perhaps I may be enabled to render yourself an essential service. But for all this, it is necessary that we should meet, and confer frankly. Meanwhile time presses--delay is forbidden. Will you meet me, an hour after noon, in the lane, just outside the private gate of your gardens. I shall be alone; and you can not fear to meet one of your own sex, and a kinswoman. Ah, I so desire to see you! Come, I beseech you. BEATRICE." Violante read, and her decision was taken. She was naturally fearless, and there was little that she would not have braved for the chance of serving her father. And now all peril seemed slight in comparison with that which awaited her in Randal's suit, backed by her father's approval. Randal had said that Madame di Negra alone could aid her in escape from himself. Harley had said that Madame di Negra had generous qualities; and who but Madame di Negra would write herself a kinswoman, and sign herself "Beatrice?"