There was much bustle and commotion in the Castle of Visinara. Servitors ran hither and thither, the tire-maidens stood in groups to gossip with each other, messengers were dispatched in various directions, and skilful leeches and experienced nurses were brought in. Then came a long silence. Voices were hushed, and footsteps muffled; the apartments of the countess were darkened, and nought was heard save the issued whisper, or the stealthy tread of the sick chamber. The Lady Adelaide was ill. Hours elapsed—hours of intolerable suspense to the Lord of Visinara; and then were heard deep, heartfelt congratulations; but they were spoken in a whisper, for the lady was still in danger, and had suffered almost unto death. There was born an heir to Visinara. And as Giovanni, Count of Visinara, bent over his child, and embraced his young wife, he felt repaid for all he had suffered in voluntarily severing himself from Gina Montani; and from that time he forgot her, or something very like it. And for this he could not be condemned, for it was in the line of honor and of duty. Yet it was another proof, if one were wanting, of the fickle nature of man’s love. It has been well compared to words written on the sands. Many weeks elapsed ere the Lady Adelaide was convalescent; and some more before she ventured to join in the gayeties and festal meetings of the land. A two days’ _fête_, given at the Capella Palace, was the signal for her reappearance in the world. It was to be of great magnificence, rumor ran, and the Lady Adelaide consented to attend it early on the morning of the second day. She placed herself in front of the large mirror in her dressing-chamber while she was prepared for the visit, the same mirror before which she had sat on the evening of her wedding-day. The Signora Lucrezia and Gina were alone present. The former was arranging her rich tresses, whilst Gina handed the signora what things she required—combs, and the like. Whilst thus engaged, the count entered, dressed. "Giovanni," exclaimed Adelaide, "Lucrezia thinks that I should wear something in my hair—a wreath, or my diamond coronet; but I feel tired already, and wish the dressing was over. Need I be teased with ornaments?" "My sweet wife, wear what you best like. _You_ need no superficial adorning." "You hear, Lucrezia: make haste and finish my hair. Do not put it in curls to-day; braids are less trouble, and sooner done. You may put aside the diamond casket, Gina. Oh, there’s my darling!" continued the countess, hearing the baby pass the door with its nurse. "Call him in." The count himself advanced, opened the door, and took his infant. "The precious, precious child!" exclaimed Adelaide, bending over the infant, which he placed on her knees. "Giovanni," she added, looking up eagerly to her husband’s face, "do you think there ever was so lovely a babe sent on earth?"