Lord Blythe stood at the open window of his sitting-room in the Grand Hotel at Bellaggio—­a window opening out to a broad balcony and commanding one of the most enchanting views of the lake and mountains ever created by Divine Beneficence for the delight of man.  The heavenly scene, warm with rich tints of morning in Italy, glowed like a jewel in the sun:  picturesque boats with little red and blue awnings rocked at the edge of the calm lake, in charge of their bronzed and red-capped boatmen, waiting for hire,—­the air was full of fragrance, and every visible thing appealed to beauty-loving eyes with exquisite and irresistible charm.  His attention, however, had wandered far from the enjoyable prospect,—­he was reading and re-reading a letter he had just received from Miss Leigh, in which certain passages occurred which caused him some uneasiness.  On leaving England he had asked her to write regularly, giving him all the news of Innocent, and she had readily undertaken what to her was a pleasing duty.  His thoughts were constantly with the little house in Kensington, where the young daughter of his dead friend worked so patiently to bring forth the fruits of her genius and live independently by their results, and his intense sympathy for the difficult position in which she had been placed through no fault of her own and the courage with which she had surmounted it, was fast deepening into affection.  He rather encouraged this sentiment in himself with the latent hope that possibly when he returned to England she might still be persuaded to accept the position he was so ready to offer her—­that of daughter to him and heiress,—­and just now he was troubled by an evident anxiety which betrayed itself in Miss Leigh’s letter—­anxiety which she plainly did her best to conceal, but which nevertheless made itself apparent.

“The dear child works incessantly,” she wrote, “but she is very quiet and seems easily tired.  She is not as bright as she used to be, and looks very pale, so that I fear she is doing too much, though she says she is perfectly well and happy.  We had a call from Mr. John Harrington the other afternoon—­I think you know him—­and he seemed quite to think with me that she is over-working herself.  He suggested that I should persuade her to go for a change somewhere, either with me or with other friends.  I wonder if you would care for us to join you at the Italian Lakes?  If you would I might be able to manage it.  I have not mentioned the idea to her yet, as I know she is finishing some work—­but she tells me it will all be done in a few days, and that then she will take a rest.  I hope she will, for I’m sure she needs it.”

Another part of the letter ran as follows:—­

“I rather hesitate to mention it, but I think so many prolonged sittings for her portrait to that painter with the strange name, Amadis de Jocelyn, have rather tired her out.  The picture is finished now, and I and a few friends went to see it the other day.  It is a most beautiful portrait, but very sad!—­and it is wonderful how the likeness of her father as he was in his young days comes out in her face!  She and Mr. de Jocelyn are very intimate friends—­and some people say he is in love with her!  Perhaps he may be!—­but I do hope she is not in love with him!”