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The peasant woman, perceiving that my mother fixed eyes of wonder

and admiration on this lovely girl, eagerly communicated her

history. She was not her child, but the daughter of a Milanese

nobleman. Her mother was a German and had died on giving her

birth. The infant had been placed with these good people to

nurse: they were better off then. They had not been long married,

and their eldest child was but just born. The father of their

charge was one of those Italians nursed in the memory of the

antique glory of Italy-one among the schiavi ognor frementi, who

exerted himself to obtain the liberty of his country. He became

the victim of its weakness. Whether he had died or still lingered

in the dungeons of Austria was not known. His property was

confiscated; his child became an orphan and a beggar. She

continued with her foster parents and bloomed in their rude

abode, fairer than a garden rose among dark-leaved brambles.