that there might not be a canker-worm hidden even in her heart, which waited but for the touch of maturity to commence its work of destruction!  Oh, men! you that have serpents coiled round your lives in the shape of fair false women—­if God has given you children by them, the curse descends upon you doubly!  Hide it as you will under the society masks we are all forced to wear, you know there is nothing more keenly torturing than to see innocent babes look trustingly in the deceitful eyes of an unfaithful wife, and call her by the sacred name of “Mother.”  Eat ashes and drink wormwood, you shall find them sweet in comparison to that nauseating bitterness!  For the rest of the day I was very much alone.  The captain of the brig spoke cheerily to me now and then, but we were met by light contrary winds that necessitated his giving most of his attention to the management of his vessel, so that he could not permit himself to yield to the love of gossip that was inherent in him.  The weather was perfect, and notwithstanding our constant shifting and tacking about to catch the erratic breeze, the gay little brig made merry and rapid way over the sparkling Mediterranean, at a rate that promised our arrival at Palermo by the sunset of the following day.  As the evening came on the wind freshened, and by the time the moon soared like a large blight bird into the sky, we were scudding along sideways, the edge of our vessel leaning over to kiss the waves that gleamed like silver and gold, flecked here and there with phosphorescent flame.  We skimmed almost under the bows of a magnificent yacht—­the English flag floated from her mast—­her sails glittered purely white in the moonbeams, and she sprung over the water like a sea-gull.  A man, whose tall athletic figure was shown off to advantage by the yachting costume he wore, stood on deck, his arm thrown round the waist of a girl beside him.  We were but a minute or two passing the stately vessel, yet I saw plainly this loving group of two, and—­I pitied the man!  Why?  He was English undoubtedly—­the son of a country where the very soil is supposed to be odorous of virtue—­ therefore the woman beside him must be a perfect pearl of purity; an Englishman never makes a mistake in these things!  Never?  Are you sure?  Ah, believe me, there is not much difference nowadays between women of opposite nations.  Once there was—­I am willing to admit that possibility.  Once, from all accounts received, the English rose was the fitting emblem of the English woman, but now, since the world has grown so wise and made such progress in the art of running rapidly downhill, is even the aristocratic British peer quite easy in his mind regarding his fair peeress?  Can he leave her to her own devices with safety?  Are there not men, boastful too of their “blue blood,” who are perhaps ready to stoop to the thief’s trick of entering his house during his absence by means of private keys, and stealing away his wife’s affections?—­and is not