With these aspirations, Catharine turned over the pages of an Italian poem, that she had taken from the shelves. The very strangeness of the words had its fascination. She panted to wrestle with her own ignorance, and overcome it with a single effort. But a sound in the house awoke Catharine from this train of thought. She had duties to perform. Life was not given that it might be wasted in vague dreams and useless expectations. She closed the book, and wandered around the room, anxious to redeem it from its state of neglect, and yet reluctant to disturb the repose in which every object had rested so long. As she stood, a light breeze swept up the valley and blew one of the shutters open, filling the room with light again. She noticed, now, a small mosaic table, half shrouded with a heap of what had been drapery cast over some object in the centre. Catharine lifted this drapery and found underneath a gilded bird-cage, which, protected as it had been from the atmosphere, looked comparatively bright. The bottom was covered with seed husks, and among them, lay a little heap of gold-tinted feathers, which seemed like a sleeping canary. But as Catharine bent over it, her breath disturbed the feathers, and they began to quiver, while one or two were dislodged and floated softly through the wires. Again Catharine was saddened. How many years must it have been, since the poor bird, of which nothing now remained but the plumage, had starved to death in its cage? Who could have been so cruel? What evil thing had left all this gloom and desolation behind it? She lifted the cage softly and wiped the dust from the black marble on which it stood. With the first sweep of her hand there shone out, from the glittering stone, a wreath of white jessamine and orange-blossoms, inlaid into the jetty surface with that exquisite skill known best to the Florentine artizans. Leaves of malachite, veined with many tints of green, were interspersed with the blossoms, and all looked fresh and pure as if the stone mockery had been wrought but yesterday. Here was a new theme of interest for Catharine. Some bridal garland seemed to have left its shadow on the stone, only to mock her curiosity. Surely all these strange and beautiful objects could not have been gathered for the enjoyment of these two old people; for then they never would have been so completely left to moulder into ruin. When conjecture reached this point, she was called from the room by the low tinkle of a breakfast-bell, which warned her of the hours she had unconsciously given to this unsatisfactory train of thought. She hurriedly shook the dust from her garments, and went out with a strange, guilty feeling, as if she had been intruding into a sacred place. How pleasantly the old people received her, as she entered the little breakfast-room that morning; and how could she help the red flush that rose to her temple, when they kindly inquired what had occupied her all the morning.