The old lady's face flushed, and pride and
shame glowed together on her cheeks.

"So we must say good night," said Calvert,
rising; "but we shall have a long day's talk
together, to-morrow. Who is it that defines an
aunt as a creature that always sends one to bed?"
whispered he to Florence.

"What made you laugh, dear?" said her
sister, after Calvert had left the room.

"I forget—I didn't know I laughed—he is a
strange, incomprehensible fellow—sometimes I
like him greatly, and sometimes I feel a sort of
dread of him that amounts to terror."

"If I were Joseph, I should not be quite
unconcerned about that jumbled estimation."

"He has no need to be. They are unlike in
every way," said she, gravely; and then, taking
up her book, went on, or affected to go on,
reading.

"I wish Aunt Grainger would not make so
much of him. It is a sort of adulation that
makes our position regarding him perfectly
false," said Emily. "Don't you think so, dear?"

Florence, however, made no reply, and no
more passed that evening between them.

Few of us have not had occasion to remark
the wondrous change produced in some quiet
household, where the work of domesticity goes
on in routine fashion, by the presence of an
agreeable and accomplished guest. It is not
alone that he contributes by qualities of his
own to the common stock of amusement, but
that he excites those around him to efforts,
which develop resources they had not, perhaps,
felt conscious of possessing. The necessity,
too, of wearing one's company face, which the
presence of a stranger exacts, has more
advantages than many wot of. The small details
whose discussion forms the staple of daily talk—
the little household cares and worries—have
to be shelved. One can scarcely entertain their
friends with stories of the cook's impertinence,
or the coachman's neglect, and one has to see as
they do see, that the restraint of a guest does
not in reality affect the discipline of a household,
though it suppress the debates and arrest the
discussion.

It has been often remarked that the custom
of appearing in parliament—as it was once
observed—in court-dress, imposed a degree of
courtesy and deference in debate, of which men
in wide-awake hats and paletots are not always
observant; and, unquestionably, in the little
ceremonial observances imposed by the stranger's
presence, may be seen the social benefits of a
good breeding not marred by over-familiarity.
It was thus Calvert made his presence felt at
the villa. It was true he had many companionable
qualities, and he had, or at least affected to
have, very wide sympathies. He was ever ready
to read aloud, to row, to walk, to work in the
flower-garden, to sketch, or to copy music, as
though each was an especial pleasure to him.
If he was not as high-spirited and light-hearted
as they once had seen him, it did not detract
from, but rather added to the interest he excited.
He was in misfortune—a calamity not the less to
be compassionated that none could accurately
define it: some dreadful event had occurred,
some terrible consequence impended, and each
felt the necessity of lightening the load of his
sorrow, and helping him to bear his affliction.
They were so glad when they could cheer him
up, and so happy when they saw him take even
a passing pleasure in the pursuits their own days
were spent in.

They had now been long enough in Italy not
to feel depressed by its dreamy and monotonous
quietude, but to feel the inexpressible charm of
that soft existence, begotten of air, and climate,
and scenery. They had arrived at that stage—
and it is a stage—in which the olive is not dusky,
nor the mountain arid; when the dry course of
the torrent suggests no wish for water. Life—
mere life—has a sense of luxury about it, unfelt
in northern lands. With an eager joy, therefore,
did they perceive that Calvert seemed to have
arrived at the same sentiment, and the same
appreciation as themselves. He seemed to ask
for nothing better than to stroll through orange
groves, or lie under some spreading fig-tree,
drowsily soothed by the song of the vine-dresser,
or the unwearied chirp of the cicala. How
much of good there must be surely in a nature
pleased with such tranquil simple pleasures!
thought they. See how he likes to watch the
children at their play, and with what courtesy
he talked to that old priest. It is clear
dissipation may have damaged, but has not
destroyed that fine temperament—his heart has
not lost its power to feel. It was thus that
each thought of him, though there was less of
confidence between the sisters than heretofore.

A very few words will suffice to explain this:
When Florence recovered from the shock
Calvert had occasioned her on the memorable night
of his visit, she had nothing but the very
vaguest recollection of what had occurred.
That some terrible tidings had been told her—
some disastrous news in which Loyd and Calvert
were mixed up; that she had blamed Calvert
for rashness or indiscretion; that he had either
shown a letter he ought never to have shown,
or not produced one which might have averted a
misfortune; and, last of all, that she herself had
done or said something which a calmer judgment
could not justify—all these were in some
vague and shadowy shape before her, and all
rendered her anxious and uneasy. On the other
hand, Emily, seeing with some satisfaction that
her sister never recurred to the events of that
unhappy night, gladly availed herself of this
silence to let them sleep undisturbed. She
was greatly shocked, it is true, by the picture
Calvert's representation presented of Loyd. He
had never been a great favourite of her own;
she recognised many good and amiable traits
in his nature, but she deemed him gloomy,
depressed, and a dreamer—and a dreamer, above
all, she regarded as unfit to be the husband of
Florence, whose ill health had only tended to
exaggerate a painful and imaginative disposition.
She saw, or fancied she saw, that Loyd's
temperament, calm and gentle though it was, seemed