My Friend Prospero

hard not to doubt a little whether they were still there. Near at hand the garden was as if a thin web of silver had been cast over it, pale and dim, where wet surfaces reflected the diff

rranean fire, white smoke with pearly shadows; would thicken and spread out; would draw together and rise in an irregular spiral column, curling, swaying, poising, as if uncertain what to do next; and at last, all at o

r, with its faded frescoes, at the north-eastern extremity of the castle buildings, had be

r eyes anxiously questioning his. "I have seen it happen many times,

rstand it, though there's a variety of the human species called scientists who might pretend they could. It's all a part of that great scheme of miracles by which God's world goes on, Nature

Annunziata. "It is a great blessing to be allowe

our eyes well open, there's not a minute of

in. Yet when it does rain, then I find that I love the rain too, that I love it just as much as the sun,-it is so fresh, it sme

he rummest miracle of them all. It is even more difficult t

that give us pleasur

metimes, who give u

nnunziata, "and then the people we see a great deal of-just as I

every one," he pointed out, "who has your solid and well-balanced little head-piece. It isn't every one who keeps his love so neatly docketed, or so sanely submitted to the

precatingly s

ng about," she declared, in her deep voice,

st simply love-love and nothing else. The first, as you have truly observed, has its roots in consanguinity or association, the second in a lively hope of future comfits, and either is sufficiently explicable. But the third has its roots apparently in mere haphazard and causele

mpunction, her eyes on the distan

anger to you, she's of a different nationality, a different rank, yet she's infinitely the most precious and important person in the world. When you're absent from her you can do nothing but think of her, gloating with throes of aromatic pain over the memory of your last meeting with her, longing with soul-hunger for your next. The merest flutter of her gown, modulation of her voice, glance of her eye, will throw your heart into a palpitation. You look

arble bench, and twirled his ye

deepest voice, holding him with a gaze, lucent and serious,

n three shades pinker; his blue eyes stared at her, startled. So for a second; then he relaxed, and laughed, laughed long a

ly mistaken, utterly and absolutely mistaken,"-he raised his voice, for greater convincingness,-"and that her name is nothing distantly resembling the name that you have spoken, and that in fact her name is Mrs. Harris, and that in fine there is no such person, and that I was m

ee how the rain comes down in long strings of beads,-see how it is like a network of long strings of glass beads falling through t

solemn strokes; then the lighter-toned and ni

y said Annunziata,

nd, like a mother, led the meek and u