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194 —we know not how. Such homage is a sort of natural religion of the heart, or rather superstition, that the good must be inherent in the lovely. But Guido had a claim far beyond his classical and perfect features, illumined, as they were, by his large dark eyes,—a claim, too, scarcely ever without avail on feminine compassion; he looked so evidently an invalid. The day's fatigue had been too much; and with ready thankfulness he took the proffered seat by the hearth; while Francesca, seeing that Arden remained in his usually moody silence, ventured, though with some trepidation, on a few English words.

"My brother is not well, and the cold night affects him; but he will enjoy such a fire."

Her accent was foreign, but her smile was a universal language all the world over; and though one supper had just been despatched, active preparations were commenced for another.

"Those foreigners," thought the female potentate of the Sun, "won't know what to order; but I'll show them what a good supper is." And with a rapidity quite new to the strangers, satisfactory even to their hunger, a little table was placed in the warmest nook of the chimney-corner, spread with the cleanest of cloths, and soon covered with a dish of fried ham, eggs with the purest of curdlike