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father."

"No, no, not so; I mean as a brother, to be sure;" and she insisted
upon taking hold of my hand with an air of the most innocent
confidence and affection.

I am glad, thought I to myself, that you are no beauty; else, alas,
this innocent sort of fooling might chance to disconcert me; at
other times I thought it is lucky, too, she is so young, there could
never be any danger of becoming attached to girls of her years. At
other times, however, I felt a little uneasy, thinking I was
mistaken in having pronounced her rather plain, whereas her whole
shape and features were by no means wanting in proportion or
expression. If she were not quite so pale, I said, and her face
free from those marks, she might really pass for a beauty. It is
impossible, in fact, not to find some charm in the presence and in
the looks and voice of a young girl full of vivacity and affection.
I had taken not the least pains to acquire her good-will; yet was I
as dear to either as a father or a brother, whichever title I
preferred. And why? Only because she had read Francesca da Rimini
and Eufemio, and my poems, she said, had made her weep so often;
then, besides, I was a solitary prisoner, WITHOUT HAVING, as she
observed, either robbed or murdered anybody.

In short, when I had become attached to poor Maddalene, without once
seeing her, how was it likely that I could remain indifferent to the
sisterly assiduity and attentions, to the thousand pleasing little
compliments, and to the most delicious cups of coffee of this young
Venice girl, my gentle little jailer? {14} I should be trying to
impose on myself, were I to attribute to my own prudence the fact of
my not having fallen in love with Angiola. I did not do so, simply
from the circumstance of her having already a lover of her own
choosing, to whom she was desperately, unalterably attached. Heaven
help me! if it had not been thus I should have found myself in a
very CRITICAL position, indeed, for an author, with so little to
keep alive his attention. The sentiment I felt for her was not,
then, what is called love. I wished to see her happy, and that she
might be united to the lover of her choice; I was not jealous, nor
had I the remotest idea she could ever select me as the object of
her regard. Still, when I heard my prison-door open, my heart began
to beat in the hope it was my Angiola; and if she appeared not, I
experienced a peculiar kind of vexation; when she really came my
heart throbbed yet more violently, from a feeling of pure joy. Her
parents, who had begun to entertain a good opinion of me, and were
aware of her passionate regard for another, offered no opposition to
the visits she thus made me, permitting her almost invariably to
bring me my coffee in a morning, and not unfrequently in the
evening.

There was altogether a simplicity and an affectionateness in her

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