was annoying. Of the former guests, I find here merely the diplomat. He is one of those Catholics whose faith in the infallibility and honesty of the Catholic church has been entirely shaken by the unexpected dogma of L'Immaculata, and he now knows not what to believe. He has become a skeptic. Amongst the new guests here, are the aunt of my summer-daughter, an Austrian Baroness, ———, with her husband and daughter, with whom she, little Elsa, is to spend the winter in Florence. They do not appear greatly pleased by her engagement to a Protestant, and had other plans for her. This, and their music, for the whole family is musical, have attracted little Elsa somewhat away from me, and even from the good Waldo, who, when he comes, longing for a few moments peace with the beloved of his soul, finds her surrounded by strangers, meets with a half-intelligible glance, and is received with a Princess-Elsa-demeanor; for her mind is now occupied by very different thoughts, and is engrossed by Shubert, or Chopin, and I know not by what other composers, and compositions of genius, which she plays, or sings with her musical relations. He waits in silence for awhile, but when the music continues too long, he goes away with an expression, which it grieves me to see. The following evening, however, she will be amiable, and perfectly her own sweet self again; and he, happy and delighted, wishes to introduce the subject of rings, and the time for their marriage, and so on; but she then becomes silent, grave, and—will not answer. I begin again to be uneasy, and to ask silently, “What will be the end of it?”
