Matilda returned. She seated herself again at the harp, which she had quitted, and essayed to compose herself; but it was in vain, she was too much agitated. Her voice, as she again attempted to sing, refused to perform its office; and her humid hands, as they swept the strings of the harp, violently trembled. “Matilda,” said Verezzi, in a sympathising tone, “what has agitated you? Make me a repository of your sorrows; I would, if possible, alleviate them.” “Oh, no,” said Matilda, affecting unconcern, “nothing--nothing has happened. I was even myself unconscious that I appeared agitated.” Verezzi affected to believe her, and assumed a composure which he felt not. The conversation changed, and Matilda assumed her wonted mien. The lateness of the hour at last warned them to separate. The more Verezzi thought upon the evening’s occurrence, the more did a conviction in his mind, inexplicable even to himself, strengthen, that Matilda’s agitation originated in something of consequence. He knew her mind to be superior to common circumstance, and fortuitous casualty, which might have ruffled an inferior soul. Besides, the words which he had heard her utter--“Go! go!--to-morrow morning!”--and though he resolved to disguise his real sentiments, and seem to let the subject drop, he determined narrowly to scrutinise Matilda’s conduct, and particularly to know what took place on the following morning. An indefinable presentiment that something horrible was about to occur, filled Verezzi’s mind. A long chain of retrospection ensued--he could not forget the happy hours he had passed with Julia; her interesting softness, her ethereal form, pressed on his aching sense. Still did he feel his soul irresistibly softened towards Matilda--her love for him flattered his vanity; and though he could not feel reciprocal affection towards her, yet her kindness in rescuing him from his former degraded situation, her altered manner towards him, and her unremitting endeavours to please, to humour him in everything, called for his warmest, his sincerest gratitude. The morning came--Verezzi arose from a sleepless couch, and descending into the breakfast-parlour, there found Matilda. He endeavoured to appear the same as usual, but in vain; for an expression of reserve and scrutiny was apparent on his features. Matilda perceived it, and shrunk abashed from his keen gaze. The meal passed away in silence. “Excuse me for an hour or two,” at last stammered out Matilda--“my steward has accounts to settle;” and she left the apartment. Verezzi had now no doubt but that the stranger, who had caused Matilda’s agitation the day before, was now returned to finish his business. He moved towards the door to follow her--he stopped. “What right have I to pry into the secrets of another?” thought Verezzi; “besides, the business which this stranger has with Matilda cannot possibly concern me.”