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 to know interested him,—interested him so much that he forgot to conceal his interest. It was evident that this was not the first time that evening that he had seen her. Most likely she had disappeared from his sight, and it was to look for her, and not to examine his Paintings, that he had invited the Count to take the walk just finished. It was for her he had searched in every corner, and not for his pictures and statues. He had insisted on an introduction to Maria Felicia and all her friends that he might see his daughter again; he cared nothing for her friends.

“That your daughter? That is Countess Maria Felicia? Strange I did not suspect it when you began to tell me about her; and yet I began to think so.”

The Count was now convinced. If the light that flashed from his eyes at this assurance was a reflection of his thoughts, then they were very proud, very brave, very brilliant.

Just then the young Countess, little suspecting that she was the object of the Emperor’s