Antonio had read many books, but this was the first volume of
womankind that he had ever studied. He had been captivated with the
very title-page; but the further he read, the more he was delighted.
She seemed formed to love; her soft black eye rolled languidly under
its long silken lashes, and wherever it turned, it would linger and
repose; there was tenderness in every beam. To him alone she was
reserved and distant. Now that the common cares of the sick-room were
at an end, he saw little more of her than before his admission to the
house. Sometimes he met her on his way to and from the laboratory, and
at such times there was ever a smile and a blush; but, after a simple
salutation, she glided on and disappeared.
"'Tis plain," thought Antonio, "my presence is indifferent, if not
irksome to her. She has noticed my admiration, and is determined to
discourage it; nothing but a feeling of gratitude prevents her
treating me with marked distaste--and then has she not another lover,
rich, gallant, splendid, musical? how can I suppose she would turn her
eyes from so brilliant a cavalier, to a poor obscure student, raking
among the cinders of her father's laboratory?"
Indeed, the idea of the amorous serenader continually haunted his
mind.
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