“Of course not—_now_; but she _was_ there half an hour ago,” replied the jailer. “She stayed in the court while I went up stairs to prepare her father for the visit; for the poor young lady had heard that people may die of joy. Joy, you see, _eccellenza_, is like spirituous liquors—a thimblefull, now and then, does a man a power of good; but, let him toss off a whole gourd, and there’s an end of him at once. Now, bless their poor hearts, they are together; and, seeing them so happy, _per Bacco_, I found myself suddenly all of a no-how; which made me think of your excellency, and how you were about to be deprived of your friend; and so I made off to remind you that Ludovico will still be left you—to say nothing of Picciola. To be sure, poor thing, she is losing her beauty—scarce a leaf left. But _that_ is the natural effect of the season. You must not despise her for _that_.” And the jailer quitted the room, without waiting the reply of Charney; who, deeply affected, vainly tried to explain to himself the mysteries of his vision. He was now almost persuaded that the sweet figure by which his dreams were haunted, to which he had assigned the name of Picciola, was the creature of reminiscence—that, absorbed by interest in his plant, he had cast his eyes on Teresa Girardi, as she stood at the grated window, and unwittingly received an impression eventually reproduced by his dreams. While he was thus reasoning, the murmur of two voices reached him from the stairs; and, in addition to the well-known steps of the old man, gliding over the stones, he could distinguish the light, airy foot of one who scarcely seemed to touch the steps as she descended. At length, the measured sound ceased at his door. He started. But Girardi made his appearance alone. “My daughter is here,” said the old man. “She is waiting for us beside your plant.” Charney followed in silence. He had not courage to articulate a syllable. A consciousness of pain and constraint chased every feeling of pleasure from his heart. [Illustration] Was this the consequence of being about to present himself before a woman to whom he was so largely indebted, and towards whom it was impossible for him to discharge the obligation; or of shame for his ungraciousness of the morning, in neglecting to return her smile and salutation? As the time of separation from Girardi approached, were his fortitude and resignation forsaking him? No matter what the motive of his embarrassment in presenting himself before Teresa Girardi, no one could have discerned, in his language or demeanour, traces of the brilliant and popular Count de Charney—the ease of the man of the world, the self-possession of the philosopher, had given place to an awkwardness, a hesitation, which called forth, in the answers of Teresa, a correspondent tone of coldness and circumspection.