With these words he flew hastily from the grotto. Ambrosio remained in his former attitude, reflecting on the youth’s unaccountable behaviour. He was inclined to suspect the derangement of his senses: yet the general tenor of his conduct, the connection of his ideas, and calmness of his demeanour till the moment of his quitting the grotto, seemed to discountenance this conjecture. After a few minutes Rosario returned. He again seated himself upon the bank: he reclined his cheek upon one hand, and with the other wiped away the tears which trickled from his eyes at intervals.

The monk looked upon him with compassion, and forbore to interrupt his meditations. Both observed for some time a profound silence. The nightingale had now taken her station upon an orange tree fronting the hermitage, and poured forth a strain the most melancholy and melodious. Rosario raised his head, and listened to her with attention.

“It was thus,” said he, with a deep-drawn sigh; “It was thus, that during the last month of her unhappy life, my sister used to sit listening to the nightingale. Poor Matilda! She sleeps in the grave, and her broken heart throbs no more with passion.”

“You had a sister?”

“You say right, that I had ; alas! I have one no longer. She sunk beneath the weight of her sorrows in the very spring of life.”

“What were those sorrows?”