mother died.

"And shall you not be sad, my Giulietta?" asked her husband. "Methinks
the memory of the dead is but a mournful welcome to our home."

"Tender, not mournful," said she. "I do believe that even now my
mother watches over her child, and every prayer she once breathed,
every precept she once taught, will come more freshly home to my
heart, when each place recalls some word or some look there heard and
there watched. It is for your sake, Lorenzo, I would be like my
mother."

They went to that fair villa by the sea; and pleasantly did many a
morn pass in the large hall, on whose frescoed walls was painted the
story of Oenone, she whom the Trojan prince left, only to return and
die at her feet. On the balustrade were placed sweet-scented shrubs,
and marble vases filled with gathered flowers; and, in the midst, a
fountain, whose spars and coral seemed the spoil of some sea-nymph's
grotto, fell down in a sparkling shower, and echoed the music of
Giulietta's lute. Pleasant, too, was it in an evening to walk the
broad terrace which overlooked the ocean, and watch the silver
moonlight reflected on the sea, till air and water were but as one
bright element.

And soon had Carrara reason to rejoice that he had yielded to his
wife's wish; for, ere they had been married three months, the plague
broke out in Genoa, with such virulence, as if, indeed, a demon had
been unchained upon earth. "The spirit of your mother, my sweet wife,
has indeed been our guardian angel," said the count, as he watched a
fresh sea-breeze lift up the long dark curls, and call the crimson