Are you old enough to have forgotten, reader, how, in your early youth, you deified the object of your love? How her very presence seemed to spread an atmosphere of joy around her? How her look was sunshine and her voice the song of a seraph? Can you remember it? Then think what must have been the feelings of Lorenzo Visconti and Leonora d'Orco, at an age when the fire of passion is the brightest, because the purest--where all those attributes of beauty, and grace, and excellence with which imagination is wont to invest the beloved objects were really present, and when the fancy of the heart spread her wings from a higher point than she commonly can find on earth. Think what must have been their feelings when in a lovely climate, amidst beautiful scenes, in a land of song, where the treasures of ancient and of modern art were just beginning to unfold themselves--the one issuing from the darkness of the past, the other dawning through the twilight of the future; think what must have been their feelings, when, in such scenes and with such accessories to the loving loveliness in their own hearts, they were suffered, almost unrestrained, to enjoy each other's society to the full, when and where they liked. The old cardinal, plunged deep in politics and worldly schemes and passions, took little heed of them. Mona Francesca was no restraint upon them. Sometimes in long rambles by the banks of the Arno, sometimes mingling with the gay masked multitudes that thronged the streets on the clear soft autumnal nights, sometimes seated in the beautiful gardens of the city of flowers, sometimes reposing in the luxurious apartments of the Casa Morelli, the days and greater part of the nights were passed during the stay of the French army in Florence. It was a dream of joy, and it passed as a dream. Gradually, however, the shadow stole over the sunshine. The day for the march was named, and came nearer and nearer. Lorenzo had to go on, fighting his way with the forces of the king; Leonora was to remain behind in Florence. They were to part, in short; and the sorrow of parting came upon them. But then there was hope--hope singing her eternal song of cheering melody, picturing the coming time when a bright reunion would wipe out the very memory of sorrow, and when, perhaps, the link of their fate might be riveted too firmly for any future separation. The old cardinal encouraged the idea, and promised to give the blessing on their union, and Mona Francesca sighed, and thought, perhaps, matrimony the next happiest state to widowhood.