step that she did not hear approached the actress, and a light hand touched her arm.
"Viola! — bellissima! — Viola!"
She turned, and saw Glyndon. The sight of his fair young face calmed her at once. His presence gave her pleasure.
"Viola," said the Englishman, taking her hand, and drawing her again to the bench from which she had risen, as he seated himself beside her, "you shall hear me speak! You must know already that I love thee! It has not been pity or admiration alone that has led me ever and ever to thy dear side; reasons there may have been why I have not spoken, save by my eyes, before; but this day — I know not how it is — I feel a more sustained and settled courage to address thee, and learn the happiest or the worst. I have rivals, I know — rivals who are more powerful than the poor artist; are they also more favoured?"
Viola blushed faintly; but her countenance was grave and distressed. Looking down, and marking some hieroglyphical figures in the dust with the point of her slipper, she said, with some hesitation, and a vain attempt to be gay, "Signor, whoever wastes his thoughts on an actress must submit to have rivals. It is our unhappy destiny not to be sacred even to ourselves."
"But you do not love this destiny, glittering though it seem; your heart is not in the vocation which your gifts adorn."
"Ah, no!" said the actress, her eyes filling with
