CHAPTER I.

Oswald now, for the first time, comprehended that Lucy was aware of his affection for her sister, and deemed that her coolness might have sprung from secret disquietude: yet now he feared an explanation as much as she had done; and now she would have told him all, had he required it; but it would have cost him too much to speak of Corinne, just as he was about to rejoin her, especially with a person whose character he so imperfectly knew. They crossed the Apennines, and regained the sweet climate of Italy. The sea-breeze, so glowing in summer, now spread a gentle heat. The turf was green, the autumn hardly over, and yet the spring already peeping forth. The markets teemed with oranges and pomegranates. The Tuscan tongue was audible; and all Oswald's dearest memories revived, though now unmixed with hope. The mild air would have rendered Lucy confiding, had he encouraged her. Had a Corinne been with them, she would soon have learned their secrets; but the more congenial they were, in natural and national reserve, the less easy was it for them to break the ice which kept their hearts asunder.