As she sat at the piano on this chilly night, she looked eminently beautiful in a loose, rich tea-gown of sage-green plush, with front of pale pink silk, a gown of striking magnificence, with its heavy silver belt glittering beneath the shaded lamplight. It was made in a style which no English dressmaker could accomplish, and fastened at the throat by a quaint brooch consisting of three tiny golden playing-cards, set with diamonds and rubies, and fastened together by a pearl-headed pin, a charming little phantasy. The pink silk, in combination with the sombre green, set off her fair beauty admirably, yet her face was a trifle wan as she mechanically fingered the keys with all the suppleness and rapidity of a good player. But she was Tuscan, and the love of music was in her inborn. In her own far-off country one could hear the finest opera for sixpence, and there was scarcely any household that did not possess its mandoline, and whose members did not chant those old canzonette amorose. Music is part of the Italian's life. She stopped at last, slowly glancing around the handsome room, and drawing a heavy sigh. At that moment a sense of utter loneliness oppressed her. Her companion, Mrs Nenci, had retired to bed half an hour before, and the Doctor was still in his study, where he usually spent the greater part of his time. He was often locked in alone for hours together, and was careful never to allow any one to enter on any pretext. She had, indeed, never seen the interior of Malvano's den, and was often seized with curiosity to know how he spent his time there through so many hours. As she sat silent, she pondered, as she ever did, over her lost lover, and wondered if he were still in England, or if, weary and despairing, he had left for the Continent again. "He has misjudged me," she murmured--"cruelly misjudged me." Her fathomless blue eyes glistened with tears, as, turning again to the instrument, she commenced to play and sing, in a soft, sweet contralto, the old Tuscan love-song, "Ah! non mi amava"; the song sung by the contadinelle in the vineyards and the maize-fields, where the green lizards dart across the sun-baked stones--where life is without a care, so long as one has a handful of baked chestnuts, or a plate of polenta di castagne--where the air is sweet and balmy and the very atmosphere breathes of love. "E mi diceva che avria sfidato, Per ottenermi tutto il creato; Che nel mio sguardo, nel mio sorriso Stavan le gioie del Paradiso. E mentre al core cosi parlava. Ah! non mi amava! no, non mi amava! "Tu sei, diceva, l'angelo mio: Tu sei la stella d'ogni desio: Il sol mio bene sei che m'avanza; Tu de' miei giorni se' la speranza. Fin le sue pene mi raccontava, Ah! non mi amava! no, non mi amava!" Slowly, in a voice full of emotion, she sang the old song she had heard so many times when a child, until its sad, serious air trembled through the room.