PINK. 
133 
absorbed in devotion, and her dark eyes filled 
with tears. She was one of those nymph-like 
figures which the magic pencil of Angelica 
Kauffmann was fond of transferring to the 
canvass. In her clasped hands she held a bou¬ 
quet of clove carnations, tied with a silk ribbon, 
of the delightful colour of hope. With such 
devotion prays the saint in that masterpiece of 
Garofalo’s, in the cathedral of Ferrara, in whose 
folded hands the artist, in allusion to his own 
name, has placed a nosegay of the same flowers. 
The morning was so lovely and the air so mild 
that I had left the carriage to follow me, and 
was walking forward alone. Near the chapel 
I seated myself on a mass of rock. The girl 
rose from prayer, and presently appeared a hale 
young man driving three loaded horses. The 
moment she saw him she flew into his arms. 
Not a word passed on either side. Amidst tears 
and kisses, she presented to him the bouquet 
of carnations, with an inexpressible look of ten¬ 
derness, strove to speak, but could not utter a 
word. The young man placed the flowers in his 
bosom with as much reverence as if they had 
been the relics of a saint. The fond girl had 
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