‘Yes,’ added Sophia, ’when love is united with constancy.  But what are you daubing at, Edoardo?  You are actually putting red on orange leaves.  Where have you learned botany?  And what does that rose signify?  Is not this a bride’s wreath, and are not bridal wreaths always made of orange flowers?  Do you know what I mean to do with those roses?  Ah, you would never guess.  I shall make of them a funeral crown.  Here, take these leaves, and reach me the palette.  You have positively learned nothing all the time you have been seeing me make flowers.’

A servant entered the room, saying, ’There is no post to Venice either to-day or to-morrow:  the Signor Edoardo cannot set out before Friday.’

‘Friday!’ exclaimed Sophia, ‘vile day!’ and with a clouded countenance she silently resumed her self-imposed task.  Edoardo, on the contrary, seemed glad of the delay.

‘No matter; but,’ he added, ’is not this a trick of yours—­a plot concocted by you and Luigia to prevent me from leaving Padua?’

‘You mistake, Edoardo; I would wish rather to hasten your departure.’

‘I am very much obliged to you,’ replied Edoardo, half vexed.  ’What do you mean?  If you do not explain your words I shall be very angry.’

’The explanation—­the explanation, Edoardo, is here in my head, but not in my heart.  The explanation, Edoardo, is that I love you too much, and I am not pleased with myself.  Yes, but there are sorrows, Edoardo, which sadly wear away our life; but these sorrows are a need, a duty, and to forget them is a crime.  My poor sister, the only friend I have ever had, that poor saint, the victim of love, dead through the treachery of a man hardly two years since:  on memory of her I have lived for eighteen months; but I even forget her when I see you, when I speak to you.  Perhaps I do not bestow on my mother as much attention as her unhappy state requires.  Alas! there is no reproach more bitter than this:  “You are a bad daughter!” And this my conscience reproaches me with being a thousand times.  Thus, Edoardo, I am wanting in my duties.  I am a weak creature:  a powerful, and too sweet sentiment threatens to take entire possession of me, to the detriment of the other sentiments that nature has implanted in our heart.  Go, then, Edoardo; I have need of calm—­I have need of not seeing you.  Suffer me to fulfil my duties, that I may be more worthy of you.  When you are far away, I shall have full faith in you.  But if your father should refuse his consent to our union?’

’Leave those sad thoughts.  My father wishes only to please me, and it will be sufficient for me to ask his consent to obtain it.  Even should he refuse it, in two years the law will permit me to dispose of myself as I choose.’

’May Heaven remove this sad presentiment from my mind; but it makes me tremble.  Oh! if you return with the desired consent of your father! oh! if my mother, as the physicians gave me reason to hope, should then be well! we shall be the happiest of mortals.’