THE EVE OF ST. JOHN. 145 



Bianca's father, who only thought (poor old man) that she 

 had been out to look at the fireworks, did not observe her 

 agitation and unwonted paleness. Parent and child, their 

 evening prayers having been, as usual, offered up together, 

 soon sought their humble pillows ; but when sleep, long ab- 

 sent, weighed down the maiden's eye-lids, visions of terror 

 haunted her slumbers. These were at one moment clear and 

 defined, the next dim and indistinct ; but all seemed rendered 

 visible by the wavering, scintillating light of the fatal Lucciole, 

 which themselves appeared ever and anon to assume gigantic 

 size, and to put on human faces, once known to the beautiful 

 dreamer, but long since numbered with the dead. 



We may here observe, that Bianca's superstitious dread of 

 the fire-flies, and her belief that they were animated by depart- 

 ed souls, were not peculiar to herself, but entertained in com- 

 mon with the peasantry of her country, though the prevalent 

 notions were in her case strengthened by some legendary tale 



which ran current in her family. 



****** 



Twelve months had brought round another Eve of St. John, 

 and brought with it, and on just such a summer night, the 

 like festivities the like illuminations. 



Had the year been productive of as little change to our 

 high-born youth and low-born maiden? To Bianca, the proud 

 noble, who should have been as nothing, was, in womanly 

 devotion, still everything. Yet had he become an everything 



