says the copy book: in this instance it said the truth—for Beatrice found her companion invaluable. She was the widow of a sailor, returning home to her friends at Naples. Active, and well known to the sailors, she enabled the young and timid voyager to remain almost entirely secluded in her cabin, which she never left save for a little air in the evening.
It would have done those good who talk of common feelings as evil and coarse to mark the little attentions, the delicate kindliness, with which the sailors cleared a path for her steps, or made a seat of planks and sails for the young Spanish exile. Alvarez had told her history truly. He judged rightly, because he judged others by the better part of his own nature. Yet it was a weary and sad voyage. Beatrice had never lived in luxury, but she had in refinement—the refinement of nature, solitude, and intellectual pursuits. She had dwelt in stately rooms, whose torn tapestries and shattered furniture were associated with noble and stirring memories; her lute, a few books, and gentle cares for her mother, had filled up her time. Her eyes had dwelt on the stately forest and the dark mountain; her step was accustomed to the silver dew and the
