During the next day and the next day after, Signora Rovero and her daughter increased their attention to Maulear, lest he should become weary of their solitude. This solitude to Maulear was elysium. A pleasant intimacy grew up between Aminta and the Marquis, every hour revealing a new grace to him, as he fancied the hour drew near when the ice of her heart would melt, and she would find an image of her sentiments in him. One circumstance, however, troubled Maulear, and aroused his jealousy. Towards the end of the second day, he sat in the saloon, leaning on his elbow, and looking with admiration through one of the windows at the purple and magnificent Italian sun. Aminta did not know that Maulear was in the saloon, and when she came in did not see him. She had a letter in her hand. "_From him_," said she, as she hastily unsealed it; "what does he say? _Dear_ Gaetano, he has not forgotten me." At the name Gaetano, Maulear turned around quickly, and under the influence of much emotion, stood before her. She seemed a little surprised and disconcerted, and hid the letter in her bosom. The words died away on the Marquis's lips, and he asked no question. His original distrust returned, and he resolved to watch. On that evening Maulear was less gay and less entertaining than he had been on the previous one. He observed that Aminta too was thoughtful. She has been unable, said he, to read her letter, and that is the cause of her uneasiness. For a few moments the young girl left the room, in which her mother and Maulear were. She is reading the mysterious letter, said he to himself. Just then it chanced that Signora Rovero spoke of Gaetano Brignoli, to whom she paid the greatest compliments. Aminta returned with an expression altogether changed. Her face was lit up with joy, as expressive and animated as the tedium and thoughtfulness which marked it had been profound. Maulear did not sympathize with her gayety, and she became every moment more moody and sombre. Under the pretext of a headache, he retired to his room. New thoughts assailed him. He looked out on the terrace where he had seen the unknown form. He took the lace veil and examined it as if he now saw it for the first time. Men are often cruel to themselves, and find a secret pleasure in turning the knife in the wound, and making their suffering severe as possible. To tell the truth, when he thought of his conversation with Aminta, and analyzed its phases, he was led by its elevation and frankness to blush at his suspicions. After all, said he, the letter she received from Gaetano is perhaps only a child's-play between them. It is but a secret between brother and sister, such as often exists, and to which it is foolish to attach any importance. Amid this excitement, sleep overtook him, harassed as he was between hope and fear, good and evil.