There was a rustic bench close by, and she sat
down to rest and think. Very sweet thoughts were hers,--such
thoughts as sweet women cherish when they dream of Love. Often the
dream vanishes before realisation, but this does not make the time
of dreaming less precious or less fair. Lost in a reverie which in
its pleasantness brought a smile to her lips, she did not hear a
stealthy footstep on the grass behind her, or feel a pair of dark
eyes watching her furtively from between the cedar-boughs,--and she
started with surprise, and something of offence also, as Monsigner
Gherardi suddenly appeared and addressed her,--
"Buon giorno, Contessa!"
She rose from her seat and saluted him in silence, instinctively
grasping the book she held a little closer. But Gherardi's quick
glance had already perceived the title and the name of its author.
"You improve the time!" he said, sarcastically, pacing slowly beside
her. "To one of your faith and devotion that book should be
accursed!"
She raised her clear eyes and looked at him straightly,
"Is the sunlight accursed?" she said, "The grass or the
flowers? The thoughts in this book are as pure and beautiful
as they!"
Gherardi smiled. The enthusiasm of a woman's unspoilt nature was
always a source of amusement to him.
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