What city is so delightful as Florence on the afternoon of a lovely day in early spring, when the sun glows above from an unclouded sky, and the Arno flows on through the midst of the city, amid its magnificent palaces, beneath its lovely bridges.  Then beauty reigns everywhere.  The Lung’ Arno, the Casino, the Via Calziolajo are thronged with carriages, with horsemen and footmen, with offices and soldiers, men, women and children.  Beautiful flower girls carry around their bouquets and bestow them on the stranger, expecting but never asking some little doucer in return.  The gloomy palaces of the middle ages, the magnificent churches of early times, towers and colonnades, statues and fountains, arrest the eye and charm the beholder.  All is joyousness and beauty.

Among the throngs of carriages which rode along the Lung’ Arno and down to the Casino, none was more noticed than that of the Count Borelloni.  It was a splendid equipage drawn by two fiery horses, to guide which the utmost skill of the coachman was needed.  The old count was of a remarkable appearance.  His countenance was noble and his air commanding.  He was noted through Florence for his wealth and taste.  Artists of every kind found in him a patron.  It was at his palace that Mario Fostello had first attracted attention by his genius and the beauty his pictures.  He had seen Stella, had loved her, and had spoken to the old count, telling him that he would seek after fame if he would bestow his daughter upon him.  But the indignation and pride of Borelloni rose high, and he contemptuously ordered Mario to withdraw and never again to enter his house.

There was one feeling in the heart of the old count which far exceeded every other, and that was an intense love for his daughter.  Beautiful, high-souled and accomplished, she was worthy of the highest station in the land, and such a station he desired for her.

They now rode in their carriage-father and daughter; an aged oak and a young and tender vine, one supported the other, which gave it beauty and attractiveness.

Stella attracted the gaze of all by her exquisite beauty, but there was one whom she saw walking swiftly past, the sight of whom sent a thrill through every vein-for well she knew the tall and stately figure of Mario.

“Stella,” said her father, “there goes the ambitious painter-that is the man who had the unspeakable presumption to ask your hand of me.  He, a paltry artist.  See him as he walks along there.”

Stella’s blood rushed to her face, and her frame trembled with agitation.  She turned away her head to hide her confusion.

“Look, do you see him?” said her father.

“Who?” said she.

“Why, Mario, the artist, but he is out of sight.  What is the matter, Stella?  Tell me my child, are you ill?  Why are you so pale?  You change color.  You are sick, my daughter.  We must go home.”

“O no, father.  Do not go home.  It was but a passing faintness, I will soon get ever it.”