and youth are ever companions, and Mildred was no exception to the general rule. But hers was one of those natures which love affects the most intensely; it was, indeed,
"The worship the heart lifts on high,
And the heavens reject not."
For such love is the emanation of all that is most elevated and most unselfish in our nature. On this subject any general rule is impossible; love, like the chamelion, is coloured by the air in which it lives—and the finer the air the richer the colour. Some young ladies have a happy facility of falling in and out of love; their heart, like a raspberry tart, is covered with crosses. But Mildred was too sensitive and too ideal for these "light summer fancies." Her affection was her destiny, and she loved the young Italian with the devotion and depth of a love that was half poetry. I never saw a handsomer couple—such perfect representatives of the north and south: she, fair as that sweetest of roses, the one called the maiden's blush; and he of that rich dark olive, which suits so well with the high Roman features.
There are always plenty of people to talk of what does not concern them, and a love affair would seem to be everybody's business; precisely because it is one of all others with which they have the least to do. At last the affair reached Sir Henry's ears, and he was as furious as any father in a romance of four volumes; bread and water, and to be locked up for life, were among the least of his menaces. I believe that he thought himself merciful because they were the only ones that he actually inflicted. He was wrong, as all are who rouse the passive resistance of a woman's nature. The indignity and violence with which she was treated only made her turn more fondly to the shelter of the loving heart she believed was so truly her own. Kindness might have brought her to her father's feet, ready to give up her dearest hopes for his sake; but his harsh anger only made her tremble at the hopeless future. There was also another motive which strengthened her resolution, she had become secretly attached to the Catholic faith, and, like all young converts, was enthusiastic in her belief. Love might have something to do with the conversion. Sir Henry said that it had done all the mischief; but Mildred at all events believed, that even had the Count d'Arrezi been out of the question, her vocation would have been the same, still she felt happy in the idea of their mutual conviction.
Well, one moonlight night a closely-shrouded couple were seen gliding across the Piazza di Spagna. The fountain's low and melancholy singing was the only sound, and the moon shone full on the magnificent flight of steps which led to the convent della Trinita de Monti. The stately domes shone like silver in the lovely night, and Mildred ascended the vast steps with the buoyant feet of hope as she gazed upon them. They pointed out her place of refuge, and she was conducted thither by Arrezi. Gradually as she ascended, the singing of the fountain died away in the distance, but a still sweeter song arose on the air. The nuns were at vespers, and the solemn chant pierced even the huge walls by which they were surrounded. Mildred clung to her lover's arm as they paused before the gates; she started at the deep sound of the bell which announced their arrival—it struck like a knell on her heart. Her appearance was expected, and she was at once conducted to the Abbess; a tall, stately woman, but one whose sad brow and cheek worn before its
