The villa stood in the midst of ornamented grounds, finely decorated With statues and fountains, and laid out into groves and alleys and shady bowers.  It commanded a wide view of the Mediterranean, and the picturesque Ligurian coast.  Every thing was assembled here that could gratify the taste or agreeably occupy the mind.  Soothed by the tranquillity of this elegant retreat, the turbulence of my feelings gradually subsided, and, blending with the romantic spell that still reigned over my imagination, produced a soft voluptuous melancholy.

I had not been long under the roof of the Count, when our solitude was enlivened by another inhabitant.  It was a daughter of a relation of the Count, who had lately died in reduced circumstances, bequeathing this only child to his protection.  I had heard much of her beauty from Filippo, but my fancy had become so engrossed by one idea of beauty as not to admit of any other.  We were in the central saloon of the villa when she arrived.  She was still in mourning, and approached, leaning on the Count’s arm.  As they ascended the marble portico, I was struck by the elegance of her figure and movement, by the grace with which the mezzaro, the bewitching veil of Genoa, was folded about her slender form.

They entered.  Heavens! what was my surprise when I beheld Bianca before me.  It was herself; pale with grief; but still more matured in loveliness than when I had last beheld her.  The time that had elapsed had developed the graces of her person; and the sorrow she had undergone had diffused over her countenance an irresistible tenderness.

She blushed and trembled at seeing me, and tears rushed into her eyes, for she remembered in whose company she had been accustomed to behold me.  For my part, I cannot express what were my emotions.  By degrees I overcame the extreme shyness that had formerly paralyzed me in her presence.  We were drawn together by sympathy of situation.  We had each lost our best friend in the world; we were each, in some measure thrown upon the kindness of others.  When I came to know her intellectually, all my ideal picturings of her were confirmed.  Her newness to the world, her delightful susceptibility to every thing beautiful and agreeable in nature, reminded me of my own emotions when first I escaped from the convent.  Her rectitude of thinking delighted my judgment; the sweetness of her nature wrapped itself around my heart; and then her young and tender and budding loveliness, sent a delicious madness to my brain.

I gazed upon her with a kind of idolatry, as something more than mortal; and I felt humiliated at the idea of my comparative unworthiness.  Yet she was mortal; and one of mortality’s most susceptible and loving compounds; for she loved me!

How first I discovered the transporting truth I cannot recollect; I believe it stole upon me by degrees, as a wonder past hope or belief.  We were both at such a tender and loving age; in constant intercourse with each other; mingling in the same elegant pursuits; for music, poetry, and painting were our mutual delights, and we were almost separated from society, among lovely and romantic scenery!  Is it strange that two young hearts thus brought together should readily twine round each other?