There can be no doubt that the clergyman was right in suggesting that Colin should leave Frascati, and that the strange little household which had kept together since Arthur’s death, under the supervision¹ of Sora Antonia, was in its innocence² in utter contradiction of all decorum and the usages of society. It was true besides that Alice had begun to be uneasy upon this very point, and to feel herself in a false position; nevertheless, when Lauderdale returned alone with a note from Colin, and informed her that they had found rooms in Rome, and were to leave her with Sora Antonia until the arrangements were made for the marriage, it is inconceivable how blank and flat the evening felt to Alice without her two knights³. As she sat over her needlework her sorrow came more frequently home to her than it had ever done before—her sorrow, her friendlessness, and a vague dread⁴ that this great happiness, which had come in tears, and which even now could scarcely be separated from the grief which accompanied it, might again fly away from her like a passing angel. Sora Antonia was indifferent company under these circumstances; she was very kind, but it was not in nature that an elderly peasant woman could watch the changing expressions of a girl’s face, and forestall⁵ her tears, and beguile⁶ her weariness like the two chivalrous⁷ men who had devoted⁸ themselves to her amusement and occupation. Now that this rare morsel⁹ of time, during which she had been tended “like a queen,” was over, it seemed impossible to Alice that it ever could be again. She who was not clever, who was nothing but Arthur’s sister, how could she ever expect again to be watched over and served like an

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