THE VENETIAN GIRL. THE sun was shining beautifully one summer evening, as if he bade a sparkling farewell to a world which he had made happy. It seemed also by his looks, as if he promised to make his appearance again to-morrow; but there was at times a deep breathing western wind, and dark purple clouds came up here and there, like gorgeous waiters on a funeral. The children in a village not far from the metropolis were playing however on the green, content with the brightness of the moment, when they saw a female approaching, who instantly gathered them about her by the singularity of her dress. It was not very extraordinary; but any difference from the usual apparel of their countrywomen appeared so to them; and crying out, " A French girl! a French girl!" they ran up to her, and stood looking and talking. She seated herself upon a bench that was fixed between two elms, and for a moment leaned her head against one of them, as if faint with walking. But she raised it speedily, and smiled with great complacence on the rude urchins. She had a bodice and petticoat on of different colours, and a handkerchief tied neatly about her head with the `point behind. On her hands were gloves without fingers; and she wore about her neck a guitar, upon the strings of which one of her hands rested. The children thought her very handsome. Any one else would also have thought her very ill, but they saw nothing in her but a good-natured looking foreigner and a guitar, and they asked her to play. "O che bei ragazzi!" said she, in a soft and almost inaudible voice;" Che visi lieti *!” and she began to play. She tried to sing too, but her voice failed her, and she shook her head smilingly, saying, "Stanca! Stancat!" " Sing;-do sing," said the children; and nodding her head, she was trying to do so, when a set of schoolboys came up and joined in the request. No, no," said one of the elder boys, "she is not well. You are ill, a'nt you,-miss?" added he, * Oh, what fine boys! What happy faces! + Weary! Weary! : laying his hand upon hers as if to hinder it. He drew out the last word somewhat doubtfully, for her appearance perplexed him he scarcely knew whether to take her for a common stroller, or a lady straying from a sick bed. "Grazie!" said she, understanding his look:troppo stanca: troppo." By this time the usher came up, and addressed her in French, but she only understood a word here and there. He then spoke Latin, and she repeated one or two of his words, as if they were familiar to her. “She is an Italian," said he, looking round with a good-natured importance; "for the Italian is but a bastard of the Latin." The children looked with the more wonder, thinking he was speaking of the fair musician. "Non dubito," continued the usher, "quin tu lectitas poetam illum celeberrimum, Tassonem; Taxum, I should say properly, but the departure from the Italian name is considerable." The stranger did not understand a word. "I speak of Tasso," said the usher," of Tasso." "Tasso! Tasso!" repeated the fair minstrel ;-" oh-conhosco-Tàs-so ‡;" and she hung with a beautiful languor on the first syllable. "Yes," returned the worthy scholar, " doubtless your accent may be better. Then of course you know those classical lines Intanto Erminia infra l'ombrosy pianty D'antica selva dal cavallo-what is it ?" The stranger repeated the words in a tone of fondness, like those of an old friend: Intanto Erminia infra l'ombrose piante Our usher's common-place book had supplied him with *Thanks :-too weary! too weary! + Doubtless you read that celebrated poet Tasso. § Meantime in the old wood, the palfrey bore á fortunate passage, for it was the favourite song of her countrymen. It also singularly applied to her situation. There was a sort of exquisite mixture of silver clearness and soft mealiness in her utterance of these verses, which gave some of the children a better idea of French than they had had; for they could not get it out of their heads that she must be a French girl; "Italian-French perhaps," said one of them. But her voice trembled as she went on like the hand she spoke of. "I have heard my poor cousin Montague sing those very lines," said the boy who prevented her from playing. "Montague," repeated the stranger very plainly, but turning paler and fainter. She put one of her hands in turn upon the boys affectionately, and pointed towards the spot where the church was. 66 Yes, yes," cried the boy;" why she knew my cousin :-she must have known him in Venice." "I told you," said the usher, "she was an Italian.""Help her to my aunt's," continued the youth; "she'll understand her :-lean upon me, miss;" and he repeated the last word without his former hesitation. Only a few boys followed her to the door, the rest having been awed away by the usher. As soon as the stranger entered the house, and saw an elderly lady who received her kindly, she exclaimed "La Signora Madre," and fell in a swoon at her feet. She was taken to bed, and attended with the utmost care by her hostess, who would not suffer her to talk till she had had a sleep. She merely heard enough to find out that the stranger had known her son in Italy; and she was thrown into a painful state of guessing by the poor girl's eyes, which followed her about the room till the lady fairly came up and closed them. "Obedient! obedient!" said the patient; "obedient in every thing: only the signora will let me kiss her hand;" and taking it with her own trembling one she laid her cheek upon it, and it stayed there till she dropped asleep for weariness --Silken rest Tie all thy cares up though her kind watcher was doubly thrown upon a recollection of that beautiful passage in Beaumont and Fletcher, by the suspicion she had of the cause of the girl's visit. "And yet," thought she, turning her eyes with a thin tear in them towards the church spire, "he was an excellent boy-the boy of my heart." When the stranger woke, the secret was explained: and if the mind of her hostess was relieved, it was only the more touched with pity, and indeed moved with respect and admiration. The dying girl (for she was evidently dying, and happy at the thought of it) was the niece of an humble tradesman in Venice, at whose house young Montague, who was a gentleman of small fortune, had lodged and fallen sick in his travels. She was a lively good-natured girl, whom he used to hear coquetting and playing the guitar with her neighbours; and it was greatly on this account, that her considerate and hushing gravity struck him whenever she entered his room. One day he heard no more coquetting, nor even the guitar. He asked the reason, when she came to give him some drink; and she said that she had heard him mention some noise that disturbed him. "But you do not call your voice and your music a noise," said he, "do you, Rosaura? I hope not, for I had expected it would give me double strength to get rid of this fever and reach home." Rosaura turned pale, and let the patient into a secret; but what surprised and delighted him was, that she played her guitar nearly as often as before, and sung too, only less sprightly airs. "You get better and better, signor," said she, " every day; and your mother will see you and be happy. I hope you will tell her what a good doctor you had?" "The best in the world," cried he, as he sat up in bed put his arm round her waist, and kissed her. "Pardon me, signora," said the poor girl to her hostess; " but I felt that arm round my waist for a week after, ay, almost as much as if it had been there." "And Charles felt that you did," thought his mother; "for he never told me the story."-" He begged my pardon," continued she, as I was hastening out of the room, and hoped I should not construe his warmth into impertinence: and r to hear him talk so to me, who used to fear what he might think of myself—it made me stand in the passage, and lean my head against the wall, and weep such bitter and yet such sweet tears! But he did not hear them: -no, madam, he did not know indeed how much Ihow much I-" "Loved him, child," interrupted Mrs. Montague; you have a right to say so; and I wish he had been alive to say as much to you himself." "Oh, good God!" said the dying girl, her tears flowing away, "this is too great a happiness for me, to hear his own mother talking so." And again she lays her weak head upon the lady's hand. The latter would have persuaded her to sleep again, but she said she could not for joy: "for I'll tell you, madam," continued she; "I do not believe you'll think it foolish, for something very grave at my heart tells me it is not so; but I have had a long thought" (and her voice and look grew somewhat more exalted as she spoke) "which has supported me through much toil and many disagreeable things to this country and this place; and I will tell you what it is, and how it came into my mind. I received this letter from your son." Here she drew out a paper, which, though carefully wrapped up in several others, was much worn at the sides. It was dated from the village, and ran thus :— "This comes from the Englishman whom Rosaura nursed so kindly at Venice. She will be sorry to hear that her kindness was in vain, for he is dying: and he sometimes fears, that her sorrow will be still greater than he could wish it to be. But marry one of your kind countrymen, my good girl; for all must love Rosaura who know her. If it shall be my lot ever to meet her in heaven, I will thank her as a blessed tongue only can." "As soon as I read this letter, madam, and what he said about heaven, it flashed into my head that though I did not deserve him on earth, I might, perhaps, by trying and patience, deserve to be joined with him in heaven, where there is no distinction of persons. My uncle was pleased to see me become a religious pilgrim: but he knew as little of the contract as I; and I found that I could earn my way to England better and quite as religiously by playing my |