This time I was neither ridiculous nor thought to be so. My lady came into the saloon where I was and ran towards me, begging me not to kneel to her. She resumed for that happy moment at least her old part of guardian angel, sat on the couch by my side, and looking kindly at me from her beautiful eyes, said in the easiest way, "I see very well that you have not been cared for so well in Florence as in Padua. Now you are to be your good and obedient self again and do everything I tell you." I murmured my long-meditated prayer for forgiveness, making a sad botch of its periods. She put her hand over my mouth. "Not a word of that hateful affair," she said firmly. "You were absurd, of course, and I was to blame for allowing it; but I could not be angry with such a perfect little poet, and that monster should have known with whom he had to deal. He knows it now, I believe. He knows that a Gualandi of Siena is not at the beck and call of a pig of Padua. When he comes here, he will come in his right senses, you will see." I begged her to tell me her story; but she said there was little to tell. She had not left Padua, as I had supposed, but had stayed with friends of hers in the hope that what she called the pazzeria of the doctor would be blown away. Finding that he was obstinate, she had gone to Modena, where she lived for a while as companion to an ancient lady, who became very fond of her. It needed, indeed, a convenient bronchitis to give her her liberty again. When this occurred she found herself provided with a pretty legacy--enough to make her independent of the doctor, but at the same time more necessary to his happiness. She had intended, she said, for Siena; but the hospitality of Donna Giulia was pressed upon her, and the good services of the count were freely hers. There was talk of a judgeship for her husband; she would see how events turned about before she made any plans. "And you, Francis," she continued, "are not to be ridiculous any more, nor wander about without shoes, nor consort with rubbish any more. You are to go back to your studies and your books, and take your degree. You are to say good-bye to Aurelia as soon as you are well enough, and forget that you ever knew her, if you can." "If I forget you, Aurelia, I shall forget Heaven," I said. "We will talk about Heaven another time," said Aurelia. "Who was that saucy girl I met at the convent, who seemed to know all about you?" I told her Virginia's story exactly. She said, "The piece is madly in love with you." I assured her that she was mistaken, but she shook her head, then nodded it many times. "Certainly, certainly she is in love with you," and after a pause--"and I don't wonder. You have greatly improved, Francis."