party of his countrymen on an excursion to Ischia. He spent the heat of
noon in thoughtful solitude, and gradually the image of Viola returned
to his heart. It was a holy--for it was a HUMAN--image. He had resigned
her; and though he repented not, he was troubled at the thought that
repentance would have come too late.

He started impatiently from his seat, and strode with rapid steps to the
humble abode of the actress.

The distance was considerable, and the air oppressive. Glyndon arrived
at the door breathless and heated. He knocked; no answer came. He lifted
the latch and entered. He ascended the stairs; no sound, no sight of
life met his ear and eye. In the front chamber, on a table, lay the
guitar of the actress, and some manuscript parts in the favourite
operas. He paused, and, summoning courage, tapped at the door which
seemed to lead into the inner apartment. The door was ajar; and, hearing
no sound within, he pushed it open. It was the sleeping-chamber of the
young actress, that holiest ground to a lover; and well did the place
become the presiding deity: none of the tawdry finery of the profession
was visible, on the one hand; none of the slovenly disorder common to
the humbler classes of the South, on the other. All was pure and simple;
even the ornaments were those of an innocent refinement,--a few books,
placed carefully on shelves, a few half-faded flowers in an earthen
vase, which was modelled and painted in the Etruscan fashion. The
sunlight streamed over the snowy draperies of the bed, and a few
articles of clothing on the chair beside it. Viola was not there; but
the nurse!--was she gone also? He made the house resound with the name
of Gionetta, but there was not even an echo to reply. At last, as he
reluctantly quitted the desolate abode, he perceived Gionetta coming
towards him from the street.