rather have characterised the mild, serene love of a friend or sister, than the ardent, unquenchable fire which burnt, though concealed, within Matilda's bosom.
It was one calm evening that Matilda and Verezzi sat in a back saloon, which overlooked the gliding Danube. Verezzi was listening, with all the enthusiasm of silent rapture, to a favourite soft air which Matilda sang, when a loud rap at the hall-door startled them. A domestic entered, and told Matilda that a stranger, on particular business, waited to speak with her.
"Oh!" exclaimed Matilda, "I cannot attend to him now; bid him wait."
The stranger was impatient, and would not be denied.
"Desire him to come in, then," said Matilda.
The domestic hastened to obey her commands.
Verezzi had arisen to leave the room. "No," cried Matilda, "sit still; I shall soon dismiss the fellow; besides, I have no secrets from you." Verezzi took his seat.
The wide folding-doors which led into the passage were open.
Verezzi observed Matilda, as she gazed fixedly through them, to grow pale.
He could not see the cause, as he was seated on a sofa at the other end of the saloon.
Suddenly she started from her seat; her whole frame seemed convulsed by agitation, as she rushed through the door.
Verezzi heard an agitated voice exclaim, "Go! go!—to-morrow morning!"
Matilda returned. She seated herself again at the harp, which she had quitted, and essayed to compose herself; but it was in vain, she was too much agitated.
Her voice, as she again attempted to sing, refused to perform its office; and her humid hands, as they swept the strings of the harp, violently trembled.
"Matilda," said Verezzi, in a sympathising tone,
