Each hue was so blended and intermingled from the golden sun--so bright--that the last segment dazzled the eye,--to the dark blue sky above, and the indigo of the east, where the moon rose round and full, that it was impossible to detect the exact point where the one ended and the next began, or to conceive how, and where the rosy warmth of sunset mingled, and melted away into the cold, clear light of the moon. One star, first of the daughters of night, shone like a spark of silver in the crimson depths of air over the west; and if the seaward view was thus glorious, not less so was the land. Behind rose olive groves, with their dark-grey foliage, which surrounded Villa Reale, standing on a slight eminence about midway between Naples and Portici. To the right slumbered the white palaces of Napoli la Bella, with their green Venetian blinds, and St. Elmo, rising like the guardian of the fair city below. Beyond the northern horn of the Bay of Naples, Ischia's isle stood out at sea, bathed in living green light; to the left, behind the villa, rose Vesuvius, from whose summit wreathed a lazy pillar of smoke, bent landwards by the faint sea breeze. Still further, the southern horn, with the white houses of Castellamare and Sorrento, like pearls scattered on green moss; and further still, Capri, surrounded by dark waters,--a favourite resort in summer for the listless Neapolitans. On such a scene gazed the Countess; the rosy light of sunset shed a soft, glowing warmth of colour on her fair cheek, which heightened the beauty of her complexion. The balcony, on which the favoured pair enjoyed this rare evening, was raised some twelve feet above the orange and lemon groves below; through the trellised-work of the pillars that supported its roof, vines were gracefully twined, and hung in easy, inartificial festoons from above; the floor was formed of tesselated marble; in the centre was a table of pietra dura, on which were placed fruit--vases of flowers--amphoras containing wines of the country--a volume or two of poetry--the Leghorn straw hat and white feather, which the lady of the bower had found too warm, and laid aside. "Ellen, darling, you look sad,--what melancholy thoughts can an evening like this induce?" "I am not sad, Wentworth; but there is always a sort of 'sweet dejection' in evenings like this; and when I see the sun set I sometimes think, how different is nature from man! How many days of grief and joy have gone down that same western bourne! Bright days like this now declining, dark days of storm and tempest; no trace is left there,--it is still as blue--as bright! But how different with man; when his sun sets there is no morrow--when our joys and lights sink, they leave sad shades behind. Evening always reminds me of death, and this makes me look grave, perhaps,--though it is not my own death, but the death of those I love that I fear."