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."
"You are very pale, my child."
"It is nothing, father. But look-what is the matter with the horses?"