With a sigh he sat down and buried his face in his hands. His gray hair loosened and fell off as he sat there. At last he raised his head, and revealed the face of a young man whose dark hair showed the gray beard to be false. Yet when he once more put on his wig none but a most intimate friend with the closest scrutiny could recognize there the features of Louis Brandon. CHAPTER XXXI. PAOLO LANGHETTI. Many weeks passed on, and music still formed the chief occupation in life for Despard and Mrs. Thornton. His journey to Brandon village had been without result. He knew not what to do. The inquiries which he made every where turned out useless. Finally Thornton informed him that it was utterly hopeless, at a period so long after the event, to attempt to do any thing whatever. Enough had been done long ago. Now nothing more could possibly be effected. Baffled, but not daunted, Despard fell back for the present from his purpose, yet still cherished it and wrote to different quarters for information. Meantime he had to return to his life at Holby, and Mrs. Thornton was still ready to assist him. So the time went on, and the weeks passed, till one day in March Despard went up as usual. On entering the parlor he heard voices, and saw a stranger. Mrs. Thornton greeted him as usual and sat down smiling. The stranger rose, and he and Despard looked at one another. He was of medium size and slight in figure. His brow was very broad and high. His hair was black, and clustered in curls over his head. His eyes were large, and seemed to possess an unfathomable depth, which gave them a certain undefinable and mystic meaning--liquid eyes, yet lustrous, where all the soul seemed to live and show itself--benignant in their glance, yet lofty like the eyes of a being from some superior sphere. His face was thin and shaven close, his lips also were thin, with a perpetual smile of marvelous sweetness and gentleness hovering about them. It was such a face as artists love to give to the Apostle John--the sublime, the divine, the loving, the inspired. “You do not know him,” said Mrs. Thornton. “It is Paolo!” Despard at once advanced and greeted him with the warmest cordiality. “I was only a little fellow when I saw you last, and you have changed somewhat since then,” said Despard. “But when did you arrive? I knew that you were expected in England, but was not sure that you would come here.” “What! _Teresuola mia_,” said Langhetti with a fond smile at his sister. “Were you really not sure, _sorellina_, that I would come to see you first of all? Infidel!” and he shook his head at her, playfully. A long conversation followed, chiefly about Langhetti’s plans. He was going to engage a place in London for his opera, but wished first to secure a singer. Oh, if he only could find Bice--his Bicina, the divinest voice that mortal ever heard.