“‘I was struck,’ said the Abbé Cerutti, as he told the story to his fellow-labourers, ‘with the change which a few months had made in the habits and temper of my brother Cesario. He had left us full of the enthusiasm and spirit natural to his age; he had returned taciturn and reserved in speech, gloomy and abstracted in manner. He seemed to have a weight of care and misery upon his mind, which neither the affectionate attentions of his family nor the fondness of his mother, to whom he was devotedly attached, could succeed in shaking off. I observed that he was for ever seeking me, and requesting me to converse in private with him, as though he had something of moment to communicate; and then he would suddenly check himself, and talk of light matters, so much in contrast with the mournful tone of his voice and the gloom upon his brow, that the contemplation was most painful. But I dared not question him concerning the cause of this change in his disposition, fearing to exasperate him, in the irritable mood in which he was. One day, when he seemed more communicative than usual, I sought to enliven our conversation by endeavouring to extort from him some little narrative of his journey to Rome, concerning which he had hitherto observed an unnatural silence. “‘He said he had been happy, very happy with Count Hercules (and yet he shuddered as he spoke the words,) and the kindness of the good Abbé Giordoni, the young Count’s preceptor, had so mingled pleasure with study, that the time had passed away swiftly and pleasantly as in a charmed dream. Why then did he gaze upon me with that strange expression in his eye? I could not resist the impulse which prompted me to seize the opportunity of seeking to discover the cause of his melancholy, and said, as I pressed his hand with affection, “Dearest Cesario, do not suffer the secret which hangs so heavy on your soul to crush you thus beneath its ponderous weight. Confide in me, my brother. What is it has disturbed your happiness, and thus changed your very nature?” “‘You are deceived,’ replied Cesario, hastily, and with a kind of convulsive laugh; ‘I never was more happy or in better spirits than at this moment. Come with me this evening to the Villa V——, and see if it be not as I tell you. By-the-bye, I had forgotten to mention, that the whole family at the villa are anxious to welcome you, the old count and his son, and the abbé, and—and—(he hesitated)—in short, the whole of them will be glad to see you. So come to-night—yes, to-night—’tis time!’