affectionately to her, with his hand upon the open window, and hers in it. Now and then, he laughed in a merry way, as if he were bantering her out of something. By and by, she laughed, and then all went well again.It was curious.  I asked la bella Carolina, the pretty little one, Was mistress unwell?—No.—Out of spirits?—No.—Fearful of bad roads, or brigands?—No.  And what made it more mysterious was, the pretty little one would not look at me in giving answer, but _would_ look at the view.

But, one day she told me the secret.
‘If you must know,’ said Carolina, ‘I find, from what I have overheard, that mistress is haunted.’
‘How haunted?’
‘By a dream.’
‘What dream?’
‘By a dream of a face.  For three nights before her marriage, she saw a face in a dream—always the same face, and only One.’
‘A terrible face?’
‘No.  The face of a dark, remarkable-looking man, in black, with black hair and a grey moustache—a handsome man except for a reserved and secret air.  Not a face she ever saw, or at all like a face she ever saw.  Doing nothing in the dream but looking at her fixedly, out of darkness.’
‘Does the dream come back?’
‘Never.  The recollection of it is all her trouble.’
‘And why does it trouble her?’
Carolina shook her head.
‘That’s master’s question,’ said la bella.  ‘She don’t know.  She wonders why, herself.  But I heard her tell him, only last night, that if she was to find a picture of that face in our Italian house (which she is afraid she will) she did not know how she could ever bear it.’

Upon my word I was fearful after this (said the Genoese courier) of our coming to the old palazzo, lest some such ill-starred picture should happen to be there.  I knew there were many there; and, as we got nearer and nearer to the place, I wished the whole gallery in the crater of Vesuvius.  To mend the matter, it was a stormy dismal evening when we, at last, approached that part of the Riviera.  It thundered; and the thunder of my city and its environs, rolling among the high hills, is very loud. The lizards ran in and out of the chinks in the broken stone wall of the garden, as if they were frightened; the frogs bubbled and croaked their loudest; the sea-wind moaned, and the wet trees dripped; and the lightning—body of San Lorenzo, how it lightened!

We all know what an old palace in or near Genoa is—how time and the sea air have blotted it—how the drapery painted on the outer walls has peeled off in great flakes of plaster—how the lower windows are darkened with rusty bars of iron—how the courtyard is overgrown with grass—how the outer buildings are dilapidated—how the whole pile seems devoted to ruin. Our palazzo 

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