of sorrow, even the usually bright heavens. May good angels protect our voyage, and a love which proceeds from the Author of all love!
Palermo, (Sicily,) October 25th.—I take gold-tinted paper on which to write the name Palermo, on which to write about Palermo and all the sunny joy which shone and shines upon us here! In the first place, however, I will speak of our love-story.
The night-passage was stormy; but one of the good Sardinian vessels which cross these waters conveyed us safely through the foaming waves in sixteen hours into the Bay of Palermo. Little Elsa, who during the whole night had lain with closed eyes, silent, and more like one dying than living, rose and gazed with anxious eyes towards the shore, as if seeking for something there. Every object shone in a golden sunlight, the hill of Santa Rosalia to the right as if it had been of gold, the magnificent Marina and the handsome houses on the terraces which extend its whole length. One of these is taller than all the rest; it is the Hotel Trinacria, the principal hotel of Palermo. We inquired there after the friend for whom we were seeking.
“A gentleman of that name,” replied the host, “came here with the last steamer but he is extremely ill, has been bled many times, and———”
The host here checked himself hastily, for he saw my poor young friend stagger and fall, at least she would have fallen, if we had not caught her and conducted her to a seat.
He then hastened to add to his information, “but he is much better—and no doubt will soon be quite
