Beautiful Rienzi; or, The secret vendetta — page 116: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

BEAUTIFUL RIENZL Jil She stopped and looked at my father in turn with mourn- ful, terrified gaze: | ‘‘Oh, husband!” she cried, bursting into tears, ‘‘ you are more changed than she. There was not a white hair on your head when I left you a year ago, and now you're an old man! Oh, Guiseppe, my dear love, why did you let them keep me from you so long?” And there was the greatest change of all to come. Oh, poor mother-heart, keep strong for love of us! | As soon as we had brought her home, and waited on all her wants like fond, devoted slaves, my father led her to a private room, and told her all. What she suffered, I never knew; courageous, brave, and unselfish, she kept her anguish to herself and comforted him; her sweet face was pale, but not mournful, when they jomed me and she infused a warmth of sunshine into my heart, sweet to feel, whatever she suffered herself. Hope decks the pillow with lotus-wreaths and for the first night in monthsI slumbered sweetly. The dark cloud was vast as ever, but I seemed to see an edge of golden bright- ness curling the gloomy scroll. But while I dressed in the sunny morning’s rays with the realistic sense of things as they are, and not as they appeared to be—which a calm night’s rest and broad daylight are sure to bring, the mysterious apparition of the past evening presented itself to my imagination with a sudden and over- powering vividness, which smote me into stillness in the midst of my dressing, that | might revise once more that brief moment of recognition. Could it indeed have been a trick of fancy? “‘No,” whispered intuition vehemently; ‘‘ be cheated by no unbelief. You saw him!” So powerful was this conviction that I no longer felt ashamed of my credulity, but determined to mention the circumstance to my father, that he might sift the matter. In this state of mind I went down stairs. It was early, but my mother was already up, and sitting by her open window. Her hand was supporting her cheek, she was in deep rev- erie and did not hear me enter. I was grieved to see that her beautiful eyes were dark and iris-circled, as if she had slept but little. ‘* Mother dear,”’ I murmured, crouching by her knee, CORNUCG OOO S (©)