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The abbess of St. Teresa, was truly an honour to the religion that she professed. Early disappointments had induced her to chuse a monastic life; and, in the duties of religion, she found consolation for the perfidy of a man whom she had adored. Her sublime piety, and her unaffected meekness and humanity, made her equally beloved and venerated by the sisterhood; and, at a very early age, she attained the rank of superior, an office which she filled equally to her own credit, and the satisfaction of her daughters, whom she treated as if they were indeed her children.

When Montalva presented the little Isabel to her, she embraced the child with a mother's tenderness, and Isabel returned her caresses with all the ingenious simplicity of childhood.

"It may be years before you again see me (cried Montalva to the lady abbess), but I will take care that Isabel's pension shall always be paid in advance;

and you, holy mother, will impress upon her mind, at an early age, that she is intended for a monastic life; it will indeed, from her education, be most probably the one that she would prefer."

The abbess promised to follow his instructions, and he set out on his return to Naples. On the second day of his journey, Anselmo was taken suddenly ill, and in a few hours was unable to proceed; Montalva himself attended him with the most anxious care. "How good, how humane, is this signor (cried the inn-keeper), with what watchful kindness he hovers over his poor sick servant!" Alas! how little able are we to judge the real motives of human actions Humanity had no share in the attentions which Montalva lavished on his secretary; he dreaded that remorse would force his secret from the lips of Anselmo, and this apprehension was the cause of his apparent kindness; his fears, however, were vain, in a few hours Anselmo expired, and, from the mo

ment they had stopped at the inn, Montalva had never quitted him.

"The secret (cries Montalva, exultingly), is now my own; every bar to my happiness is removed, and I will quaff the cup of pleasure, and enjoy the riches of which I am possessed."

Such were the resolutions of Montalva, but he had yet to learn that neither the possession of riches, nor sensual enjoyments, can stop the voice of conscience.

He had flattered him

self that Isabel once removed, the uneasiness of his mind would subside; but his unhappiness every day increased, and while seated at the festive board, surrounded by the most beautiful courtezans in Naples, the spirit of his murdered friend seemed to menace him with that punishment which his crimes

had deserved.

On the supposed death of Isabel, he had taken the title of count, and many were the overtures of marriage made him by the noblest families in Naples;

but the soul of Montalva was unfitted for the enjoyment of domestic happiness, and those motives which formerly would have urged him to a mercenary marriage, had ceased to exist; he reflected with bitterness, that it was not himself, but his rank and riches that made the Neapolitan dames desirous of an alliance with him.

"While I was the untitled and the poor Montalva, I sought in vain for a rich wife (thought he), but now, when rank and wealth are mine, I am courted by those who turned from me formerly with disdain. Oh! gold, thou all ful demon, at what a price have I chased the possession of thee!"

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His thoughts now reverted to Bianca, the original cause of his sufferings and his guilt; from the time she had refused him, and quitted Naples, he had never heard of her, and the love of revenge, which was a predominant trait in his character, had at times excited him to endeavour to discover the place of her

retreat, but every enquiry that he had hitherto made was fruitless.

Some years passed away, and the torments of his mind daily increased, till his existence became burthensome to himself. His company was no longer courted by the sons of riot and dissipation, and meretricious beauty turned from his harsh and ungentle manners with disgust; he resolved to hide from the world that wretchedness which he could not conceal from himself, and he quitted the gaieties of Naples for the solitude of the castle D'Rosonio. He had regularly remitted in advance the pension of the little Isabel, but he determined never to behold her again. Soon after he had placed her in the convent of St. Teresa, he had discharged the domestics who, for years, had served the family of D'Rosonio, and replaced them with others, to whom all former transactions at the castle were unknown; different indeed was the scene which its pompous hall now pre

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