“Nor could I, either,” continued she, heedless of his interruption. “Faith, then,” cried he, with energy, “it was just what I was thinking of.” “But, after all,” said she, gravely, “it wouldn't do; privateers must never sail in company. I believe there's nothing truer than that.” He continued to look at her, with a strange mixture of admiration and astonishment. “And so,” said she, rising, “let us part good friends, who may hope each to serve the other one of these days. Is that a bargain?” And she held out her hand. “I swear to it!” cried he, pressing his lips to her fingers. “And now that you know my sentiments--” “Hush!” cried she, with a gesture of warning, for she heard the voices of servants in the corridor. “Trust me; and good-bye!” “One ought always to have an Irishman amongst one's admirers,” said she, as, once more alone, she arranged her ringlets before the glass; “if there's any fighting to be done, he's sure not to fail you.” CHAPTER XXIV. A DAY IN EARLY SPRING That twilight of the year called spring, most delightful of all seasons, is scarcely known in Italy. Winter dies languidly away, and summer bursts forth at once, and in a few days the trees are clothed in full foliage, the tall grass is waving, and panting lizards sun themselves on the rocks over which so lately the mountain torrent was foaming. There are, however, a few days of transition, and these are inexpressibly delicious. The balmy air scented with the rose and the violet stirs gently through the olive-trees, shaking the golden limes amidst the dark leaves, and carrying away the sweet perfume on its breath; rivulets run bright and clear through rocky channels, mingling their murmurs with the early cicala. The acacia sheds its perfume on the breeze,--a breeze so faint, as though it loved to linger on its way; and so, above, the lazy clouds hang upon the mountains, or float in fragments out to sea, as day wears on. What vitality there is in it all!--the rustling leaves, the falling water, the chirping birds, the softly plashing tide, all redolent of that happy season,--the year's bright youth. On such a day as this Alfred Layton strolled languidly through the grounds of Marlia. Three months of severe illness had worn him to a shadow, and he walked with the debility of one who had just escaped from a sick-room. The place was now deserted. The Heathcotes had gone to Rome for the winter, and the Villa was shut up and untenanted. It had been a cherished wish of poor Layton to visit the spot as soon as he could venture abroad; and Quackinboss, the faithful friend who had nursed him through his whole illness, had that day yielded to his persuasion and brought him there.