But how came those charming creatures thus acquainted with each other?
Perhaps their conversation may elucidate this mystery.
"We have only known each other one short week," said Mary-Anne; "and yet I feel as if you were sent to me by heaven to become my friend and confidant—for, oh! it seems to me as if my soul nourished a secret which consumes it."
"An accident made us acquainted; and that very circumstance immediately inspired me with a deep interest in your behalf," returned the signora. "There are occasions when two persons become more intimate in a few short days, than they otherwise would in as many years."
"You echo my own feelings, signora," said Mary-Anne; "and your goodness makes me desire to deserve and gain your friendship."
"Your wish is already accomplished, my dear Miss Gregory," observed Isabella. "You have my friendship; and if you think me worthy of your confidence, I can sympathise with your sorrows, even if I cannot remove them."
"How have you divined that the confidence I would impart is associated with grief?" asked Mary-Anne, hastily.
"I will tell you," replied the beautiful Italian. "When you were riding on horseback, accompanied by your father, along this road a week ago, I observed you from my own chamber. Even at that distance, I perceived something about you that immediately inspired me with interest. I followed you with my eyes until you were out of sight: and then I still continued to think of you—wondering, with that idiosyncrasy of thought which often occurs during a leisure half-hour, who you were. At length you returned. You were a few paces in front of your father; and I observed that the horse you rode was a spirited one. Then occurred the accident: the moment you were thrown so rudely off against the very gate of our shrubbery, I precipitated myself down the stairs, and, calling for the servants as I descended, hurried to your assistance. You cannot remember—because you were insensible—that I was the first to reach the spot, where your father had already raised you from the ground. Mr. Gregory was distracted: he thought that you were lost to him for ever. I, however, ascertained in a moment that you still breathed; and I directed the servants to convey you to the house. While you were still stretched in a state of insensibility upon my own bed, I contemplated you with increasing interest. Then, when you awoke at length, and spoke,—and when I conversed with you,—it seemed as if I were irresistibly attracted towards you. I was, indeed, delighted when my father proposed to Mr. Gregory to allow you to remain a few days with us until you should be completely recovered from the effects of your fall. Your father consented, and he left you with us. It was not long before I perceived that you nourished a profound grief;—I observed the frequent abstraction of your manner—I noticed your pensive mood. I thought within myself, 'Is it possible that one so young and interesting should already be acquainted with sorrow?' From that hour I have felt deeply on your account—for, alas! I myself have known what are the effects of grief!"
"Signora," said Mary-Anne, with tears in her eyes, "I can never repay you for this kind interest which you manifest towards me. I feel that I should be happier were I to tell you all that grieves me; but I tremble—lest you should think me very foolish, and very indiscreet!"
"Foolish we may all be at times," said Isabella; "but indiscreet I am convinced you never were."