A LAST LOOK. 149 



her kind old father. On rising, she gently kissed his forehead, 

 and treading lightly, left the chamber, meaning presently to 

 seek her own. 



Ah, Bianca ! which of the sweet enticements of that Mid- 

 summer night conld break thy purpose, and lure thee to go 

 forth ? Was it the evening breeze whispering among the trees 

 close by, or the distant murmur of the placid sea ? Was it 

 the breath of the evening-scented flowers, or the shouts of 

 revelry rising from the illumined city ? It was none of these ; 

 but it was an impulse, sudden, irresistible, which urged her to 

 take one last, one little look at that dear garden, where she 

 had been used to play, and not alone always, in her childhood. 

 From the garden three minutes would take her through the 

 olive grove, and give her a parting glimpse just only one of 

 the terrace walk beyond, that walk connected with remem- 

 brances more recent and more dear than all. But one thought 

 made her hesitate, might she not meet him ? Oh no. 

 There was that night, at the Palazzo of the Marchese, a grand 

 masked ball in honour of the evening's festival, and also of the 

 approaching bridal. The ducal family of Doria was to be 

 among the guests. Beatrice in all the blaze of jewels, rank, 

 and beauty queen of the night, Marco, her devoted subject, 

 in a day or two to be her lord. 



" Oh no," thought Bianca, as she hastened through the 

 grove ; " there's no fear that I shall meet with Mm" 



She found the gate open which led from the olive planta- 



