"But what matters it to either of us?" said Leonora, almost sternly; "the time has passed, the die is cast, and there is no retrieving the fatal throw." "And yet," said Leonardo da Vinci, "to a fine mind, methinks it must be a grand and noble satisfaction to discover that one we loved, but doubted or condemned, had been accused unjustly--that we have not loved unworthily--that the high qualities, the noble spirit, the generous, sincere, and tender heart, were not vain dreams of fancy or affection, but steadfast truths of God's own handiwork, which we had reverenced and loved as the finest gifts of the Almighty Benefactor. You may not feel this now, Leonora, in the bitterness of disappointment, but the time will come when such thoughts will be comfort and consolation to you--when you will glory and feel pride in having loved and been loved by such a man." Leonora snatched his hand and kissed it warmly. "Thank you," she said, "thank you. To-night or to-morrow I shall have to meet him in public, and your words will give me strength. Now that I know him worthy as I once thought him, I shall glory in his renown, as you have well said; for my Lorenzo's spirit, I feel, is married to mine, though our hands must be for ever disunited. Farewell, my friend, farewell. I will no longer regret this accident; it has had its bitter, but it has its sweet also;" and, clasping her hands together, she exclaimed almost wildly, "Oh, yes, I am loved, I am loved--still loved!" She arose from her chair as if to go, but then, catching hold of the tall back, she said, "Let me crave you, Signor Leonardo, bid some of the attendants order my jennet round to the back of the palace. I am wonderfully weak, and I fear my feet would hardly carry me in search of them myself." "I will go with you to the villa," said Leonardo. "My horse is here below. Sit you still in that chair till I return, and meditate strong thoughts, not weak ones. Pause not on tender recollections, but revolve high designs, and your mind will recover strength, and your body through your mind." CHAPTER XLI. On what a miserable thing it must be to return to a home, and to find that the heart has none, the fond, true welcome wanting--the welcome of the soul, not the lips. Oh, where is the glad smile! where the cordial greeting! where the abandonment of everything else in the joy of seeing the loved one return! Where, Lorenzo?--where? 'Tis bad enough when we find petty cares and small annoyances thrust upon us the moment our foot passes the threshold--to know that we have been waited for to set right some trivial wrong, to mend some minute evil, to hear some small complaint--when we have been flying from anxieties and labours, and thirsting for repose and love, to find that the black care, which ever rides behind the horseman, has seated himself at our fireside before we could pull off our boots. 'Tis bad enough--that is bad enough.