With all this, Evelyn was not a deliberate coquette. She admired and esteemed Melville, and appreciated his devotion with her whole heart—but unhappily she fell into that fatal mistake common to beauties, that affection such as his, is of every day occurrence, and to be considered merely as the meed due to her charms. How frequently do the lovely of our sex thus make shipwreck of their happiness, not knowing how _very few_ are capable of feeling the true sentiment of love, and how priceless therefore is the heart of an honorable man. Alas! in bitter suffering, and with tears of blood, do they expiate their supreme folly!—they then, when too late, perceive how they have flung away the purest gold for mere tinsel, and now they must starve for the want of that bread of life which can alone satisfy the famished heart, and which that once despised gold would have purchased. The plain woman is wiser. _She_ does not trample on the heart that loves her; and thus her lot is frequently a brighter one than that of her fairer, though less fortunate sister, doomed to mourn in silence and loneliness the neglected happiness of the past. What would that weary one now give for one glance, in which soul answers to soul—for one word uttered even in reproach, by lips which, in the past, breathed but tenderness and love? Alas, alas!—it is too late—_too late_—and the haughty and once-petted beauty is forever alone with the spectre of by-gone days! Like all women who have been accustomed to much attention from the opposite sex, Evelyn looked for impossibilities. The future husband her fancy painted, was to unite high station and wealth, and every advantage of mind and person, with, of course, a heart entirely devoted to her. “That love,” says the Hon. Mrs. Norton, in her beautiful and romantic novel, “Stuart of Dunleith,” “which at once satisfies the soul, the intellect, the heart and the senses, is met with once, and once only in life.” I quote from memory, and consequently express the sentiments of the gifted author in my own words. But, is it so? _I think not._ Perfect happiness is not to be found on earth; therefore, let my lady readers be content, if they meet one who unites three—aye, even two of these requisites, combined with sincere attachment—let her not then despise her lover, but rather wear him in her heart of hearts. The grand ducal court of Florence was, at the time we were there, one of the pleasantest and most aristocratic _réunions_ of aristocratic Europe. Any stranger, once presented there by his minister, was invited to all the balls, concerts, and receptions which were given weekly through the entire winter season.