After addressing letter after letter on the subject to the governor of Piedmont, she continued to interest in her behalf some of the chief inhabitants of Turin, and, through them, the wife of Menon, till the general, having strong motives for desiring to conciliate his influential petitioners, ended by granting the prayer of Teresa Girardi. And when, under the auspices of Madame Menon, she came to offer her grateful thanks to the general, the veteran, touched by the devotedness of her filial tenderness, laying aside for a moment the harshness of his nature, took the young girl kindly by the arm, as he addressed her. [Illustration] “You must come and visit my wife from time to time,” said he. “In about a month’s time she may have good news to tell you.” And Teresa, nothing doubting that the good news would consist in an order for her readmission into the fortress of Fenestrella, to pass a portion of every day with her father, threw herself at the feet of the general with a countenance bright with joy, loading him with grateful acknowledgments. While all this was proceeding undreamed of by the two captives, Charney and Girardi sat enjoying on their bench a glorious October sunshine, restoring, or rather forestalling around them, the warmth and promise of spring. Both were pensive and silent, leaning severally on the opposite arms which closed in the rustic seat. They might have passed for being estranged or indifferent to each other, but for the wistful looks cast from time to time by Charney upon his companion, who was absorbed in a profound reverie. It was not often that the countenance of Girardi was overshadowed by sadness—no wonder, therefore, that the Count should mistake the motives of his depression. “Yes!” cried he, replying, as he fancied, to the looks of his friend; “captivity is, indeed, a purgatory! To be imprisoned for an imaginary offence—to live apart from all we love.” But ere he could proceed, Girardi, raising his head, gazed with surprise upon the Count. “True, my dear friend!” he replied; “separation is one of the severest trials of human fortitude!” “_I_ your friend!” interrupted Charney, with bitterness. “Have you the charity to bestow such a name upon _me_—upon me, who am the cause of your being parted from her? for it is of your daughter you are thinking! Deny it not! Teresa is the object of these mournful meditations; and, at such a moment, how odious must I be in your sight!” “Believe me, you are mistaken in your conjectures,” mildly interrupted the venerable man. “Never was the image of my daughter invested with such consolatory associations as to-day. For Teresa has written to me. I have received a letter from my child.” “Written to you—you have a letter from her—they have suffered it to reach your hands!” cried Charney, insensibly drawing nearer to his companion. Then checking his exultation, he added, “But you have, doubtless, learned some afflicting tidings?” “Far from it, I assure you.”