distance are the blue Albanian hills, and on the left the graceful ruins of the Aqueducts stand out in charming relief against the sky. Irene gazed in silence at the lovely picture. It was long since she had ventured beyond the stone walls of the city, and now, at sight of Nature in this fresh spring dress, a new, strange, unconquerable desire for happiness suddenly took possession of her soul. “It is inhuman to be always miserable and in tears, and to eternally curse one’s own existence,” she thought; “everyone has a right to at least occasional gleams of happiness. Who has dared to condemn me to constant despair? I claim my share of joy! I claim it! I demand it! I desire it!” Irene repeated the words passionately to herself, and it seemed to her that Fate must send her happiness, if only because she desired it so ardently. “I cannot wait any longer!” she seemed to be inwardly exclaiming to somebody. “I must have happiness immediately—to-day! Yes, to-day, to-day—I do not believe in to-morrow!” Gzhatski, too, was silent, and apparently lost in his own thoughts, as he sat back in the carriage, smiling softly to himself. “How lovely!” he suddenly exclaimed, turning to Irene. “Don’t you think the Campagna reminds one of the country in Russia? The same limitless space, the same meadows, even the same modest spring, not at all southern and luxurious. I hardly think Nature at my place in the S⸺ province can be much more than a month behind this.” Presently they alighted, and climbed up a little grassy slope to admire the view, the loveliness of which was enhanced by the wonderful silence in which all Nature seemed wrapt. No sound was heard, except the occasional shy note of a bird, and the low baa-ing of distant sheep. On the way back they stopped to have tea at the Castello dei Cesari, an original and charming little restaurant, arranged in an ancient tower. They sat near the window of the large hall, with its wooden ceiling, brick floor, antique wooden chandeliers, and enormous antique vases full of flowers. The magnificent view embraced the Palatine Hill, with its gigantic ruins, and towards evening the setting sun threw the magic of its golden glory alike over the ruins and the lilacs and fruit-trees that bloomed among them. Was it the springtime, or a likeness between the Campagna and his home that had touched Gzhatski? He suddenly began to speak of his mother, of that holy of holies in his soul that he always kept so jealously to himself. Leaning his elbows on the table, he spoke to Irene of his childhood, his home, his most cherished recollections, and his life with the beloved, sainted guardian of his early days.