"It is a terrible blow," Aurora said faintly.
"It is a piece of rascality!" her friend declared. "And it shall not succeed. Of course you refuse?"
"Colonel d'Rubiera never consented to it," Aurora said. "I doubt if he knows of the letter."
"You think so? You really think so?" the other asked eagerly.
"I am sure of it, Mrs. Lindsay. Colonel d'Rubiera is the soul of honor."
"Ah!"
Mrs. Lindsay drew the exclamation out several bars, as she carefully smoothed the crushed letter. "Then you shall not be turned out of your home, my dear. You must leave all this in my hands. It is better that you should do nothing and know nothing. I am strong enough to answer for all. Set your heart at rest. Give me this letter, and give me Fra Antonio's precise address."
"What are you going to do?" Aurora asked anxiously, pen in hand.
"I am going to do nothing which need make you anxious. Is this Fra Antonio's address? Is there any one who has the right or takes the liberty to open his letters before he reads them, and judge whether he had better ever see them or not? No? You see, I don't know all the wondrous ways of your wisely intriguing Romanists. I have been coarsely taught to call black black, and white white. Now go and rest awhile before dinner, and don't worry your sweet heart. I assure you that this is all coming out right."
"She was right about the cruelty," the lady added, looking after Aurora as she left the room. "This is more cruel than a bull-fight."
That evening, a very voluminous letter left Seville for Sassovivo, directed to Fra Antonio. The note addressed to him by Mrs. Lindsay requested him to place in the hands of the Duke of Cagliostro the enclosed letter, or assure himself that it would reach him and not the signora duchessa.
In the letter directed to the duke was enclosed that which Aurora had received signed "Laura d'Rubiera," and a very spirited series of questions signed "Teresa Lindsay."
[to be continued.]
THE NOONING.
OH, soft, soft, soft, thou slender-footed maid,
Cool-clad and fair, along the sultry street
At broad, blue, blinding noon light fall thy feet
As e'er the wood-nymphs' fell while Pan was laid
At mid-day in some choice Arcadian shade,
Where not an oak-leaf laughed, and if there beat
Loud the wild heart of any Dryad fleet,
Hearing, she girded her warm side afraid.
For where, against yon hourly-growing wall.
Dull-red, the ailantus-blossoms brighter show,
A little while his weariness forgot,
Outstretching in a chosen shadow small,
With hot wet forehead on his lax arm low.
Swart Labor sleeps, without whom thou wert not!
