She flung open the door of the clothes-press, and, “In with you,” says she to me.  “Little fool! a pretty state of things!” She turned to her mistress, “Mistress, go you down and meet him.  Keep him at the door—­ hold him in talk—­hug, kiss, throttle, what you will or what you can, while I set this to rights.”  Aurelia, drying her eyes, flew to the door; and Nonna then, taking me by the shoulders, fairly stuffed me into the clothes-press, among Aurelia’s gowns, which hung there demurely in bags.  “Keep you quiet in there, foolish, wicked young man,” said she, “and when they’ve gone to bed maybe I’ll let you out.  If I do, let me tell you, it will be because you have done so much folly and wickedness as no one in his senses could have dared.  That shows me that you are mad, and one must pity, not blame, the afflicted.”

All this time she was working like a woolcarder at the disordered room, but could not refrain her tongue from caustic comments upon my behaviour.  “Wicked, wicked Don Francis!  Nay, complete and perfect fool rather, who, because a lady is kind to you, believes her to be dying for your love.  Your love indeed!  What is your precious love worth beside the doctor’s?  Have you a position the greatest in the university?  Have you years, gravity, authority, money in the funds?  Why, are you breeched yet?  Have you tired of sugar-sticks?  What next?” So she went on grumbling and scolding until the doctor came grunting to the open door with Aurelia upon his arm.

He was, as usual, out of breath and angry.  He was also, I judged, embarrassed and fretted by the ministrations of Aurelia.

“My curse,” I heard him say, “my undying curse upon the man who built this house.  Twice a day am I to scale a mountain?  Wife, wife, you strangle me!”

“Oh, dear friend!  Oh, dear friend!” ’Twas the voice of Aurelia.  “Are you come back to your poor girl?”

“Hey,” cried he testily, “do I seem to be absent?  I wish you would talk sense.  These infernal stairs rob us all of our wits, it seems.”

“I am very foolish,” said Aurelia, and I heard her trouble in her tones.  “I have been waiting so long—­so very long.”

“There, my child, there,” said he, and kissed her.  “Now be pleased to let me into my house.”  With a sigh, which I heard, she released him, and he came stamping into the room.  I trembled in my shameful retreat.

The reflections of a young man of sensibility, ear-witness against his will of the chaste and sanctioned familiarities of a man and wife, must always be mingled of sweet and bitter; but when to the natural force of these is added horror of a crime and the shame arising from discovery of utter delusion, the reader may imagine the stormy sea of torment in which I laboured.  In a word, I was to discover a new Aurelia—­Aurelia the affectionate wife, the careful minister; not the adored mistress of a feverish boy, the heroine of a Vita Nuova, the Beatrice of a, I fear me, profane