woman. 'Love, money, position all to come, and she has youth and beauty and a health that is perfect. She takes all good things as her due. What could I not have done-what could I not have been, with but half the chances of this child?'

Philippa's good spirits were now entirely restored. Though her cousin Augusta's friendship had failed her, yet that vacant place had been, as it seemed to her, miraculously filled up by this delightful Mme. Minart, who was, after all, a far cleverer and more agreeable companion than Augusta could ever be. The flattery of the Frenchwoman had in fact sunk deeply into Philippa's soul, and soothed her wounded self-esteem completely.

She looked forward to her first dance without any regrets save one that Mme. Minart could not be present to behold her bliss. There was no doubt in Philippa's innocent mind but that such an occupation would afford her new friend the most exquisite pleasure. She was at this period of her existence well aware that middle-aged persons find all their happiness in looking on at the happiness of the young, and are not so unreasonable as to expect enjoyment on their own account.

(To be continued.)

THE late spring had deepened into early summer over the city of lilies and roses, and the air was full, almost to over-sweetness, of the breath of the iris. Roses foamed over the walls, ran riot in the gardens, scattered themselves on every quick breeze. Everything in the world, as bounded by those low hills, had gained colour, richness, perfume. The skies were solid blue, the very shadows permeated with sunshine. The heats were earlier than usual; and Florence-the gay, social scandalmongering, gossiping, easy-moralled, and kind-tempered-was scampering off to its villas or to the seaboard, to Paris, to Switzerland or Vienna. In the Palazzo Mordante there were constant preparations for departure, but the moment was ever delayed. There was a feeling of expectation, of waiting, in the whole atmosphere of the place.

'And when does your ladyship intend to tell the poor young nobleman that you are his lawful wife?' was Mrs. Panton's daily inquiry to her mistress, with the variants: 'How you can reconcile it with your conscience to let other people have the nursing of him, seeing it is your right and dooty?' or 'What's keeping your ladyship from his lordship? What does the surgeon know about it then?' 'How long does your ladyship mean to uphold this poor kind of game? It's nice tales they're tattling of usI can let your ladyship know. And that wretched Peggie gettin' Copyright, 1907, by Agnes and Egerton Castle, in the United States of America. VOL. XXIV.-NO. 144, N.S.

46

well there, at Munrepo, all under false pretences. Wicked, I call it, my lady! What did I say from the beginning?'

Juliana was very gentle with her irate old nurse; opened her heart more to her, upon some odd twist of reserve, than to Spiridion, with all his delicate refinement of imagination.

'O Panton, dear!-I am not to go to him till he sends for me; I must not dare to tell him yet, he has been so ill! Not till the wound is quite healed, Panton.'

And there then came the days of hidden feasts at the Palazzo Mordante, when Spiridion, the daily go-between, brought such snippets of news as: 'This morning, the wing of a chicken and a mouthful of wine,' or 'To-day our scamp is to sit by the window,' or yet To-day we are to be wheeled upon the terrace. We make progress, my daughter, such progress!-Inconceivable!'

With every such step Juliana bloomed into brighter beauty; she who had looked womanly even in her girlish years, now began to have about her a nameless, shy grace, an exquisite re-blossoming of virginal youth, before the promise of the hour.

The last spring flowers were dead; to the end of her days the odour of lilies would sicken her in memory; but with the breath of the roses would linger her tenderest hauntings.

She wore a bunch of dark-red roses in the bosom of her filmy black muslin gown; its delicate folds were gathered to her waist with purple ribbon. Her youth, her beauty, her glorious whiteness of skin, the night richness of her hair, the purple of her eyes, radiated from the cloudy setting, in so many notes of colour.

Spiridion gallantly shaded his eyes with his hand.

'A vision!' he cried, as he stood on the threshold, beaming upon her. His own countenance was beautiful with good tidings. 'We are ordered to the hills and to the fresh air, and I am commissioned to find a suitable villa!' he cried; and subito, as they say here! The doctor (I have taken quite a liking to the monster) would prefer it to be to-morrow if possible. It's quick march with him, now, the martinet! But where ? '

Juliana's eyes, which never sparkled nor flashed, but took to themselves deeper hues in moments of emotion, grew dark now. Spiridion took a seat beside her and gathered her long ivory hand in his. She drew it from him and he saw a light shudder pass through her.

'Take him to Torre di Montemuscoli,' she said after a pause.

'Let him go to Montemuscoli. He does not know it is mineyet. It stands so high, it is healthy and so cool, the view is so vast! All is ready there, all is waiting for us. The new wing on the garden, over the terraces, is prepared for the summer-the gardens, the gardens are in bloom

She spoke rapidly, her lids cast down over the tell-tale deepening of her eyes.

Spiridion sat looking at her and forgot to speak, so many conflicting feelings were in his mind: surprise, sympathy-that sadness which the old must ever feel at the sight of young joy; sadness too that she would so soon pass from him, and withal a great thankfulness. Juliana's tide of emotion battled a little while with her reserve. At last she turned to him passionately:

'Oh, indulge me in this! I have had dreams-such dreams in that garden!'

'But-my child! You would propose to join him there, then? Surely you do not mean to let him leave Florence without telling him your secret-that secret which you alone can tell

Juliana drew back into her chair and averted her head.
'I must wait till he comes for me,' she said, and paused.

He saw the blood rise in the pure oval of her face. 'I do not think,' she said at last, that he will leave Florence without me.' Spiridion (what was he there for, as he said himself, but to do the bidding of these two he loved?) in the course of the day obediently carried out his mission with all the diplomatic skill he flattered himself was peculiarly his own.

He found Wroth testing his strength by pacing the length of his terrace. The young man wheeled round, a flame in each cheek proclaiming the recent exertion. He had grown thinner, and an air of delicacy lent an extraordinary spirituality to his

countenance.

'That

'I have taken twenty turns,' he cried triumphantly. pestilent surgeon keeps me mewed up and thinks I am rolled about in a chair still-I have been a quarter of a mile to-day; I have reckoned it.'

'Wait till you get to the hills, in the cool breezes,' answered Spiridion, rubbing his hands. Sit down now, my boy; you'll want all your vigour saved up for to-morrow. Eh, I've not been idle. And I've been lucky. You've no idea what I have found for you. Such a place, such air, such scenery! An historic castle,

what do you say to that? Florence.'

And only two hours' drive from

Wroth, who had let himself sink into his cushioned wicker couch with more alacrity than he would have been willing to confess, turned his eyes, fiercely eager, upon the speaker. The bright colour had begun to ebb from his face. Spiridion looked at the transparent hand, blue-veined, outflung with unconscious lassitude on the arm of the chair, trembling a little as it lay.

'It is high time indeed you should get out of this heat,' he cried in concern. 'And that is the beauty of my discovery-you can start, as I say, to-morrow

'To-morrow!' interrupted the other. The red leaped back into his cheek. Spiridion positively started at the fire of his glance. To-morrow,' repeated Wroth, closed his eyes, and leaned back against his cushions as one falling into a dream.

'Yes, yes,' said Spiridion, soothingly. Let me tell you now about this place,' he went on as if to a child; he was alarmed at the sight of so wild a spirit in a frame still so weak. Torre di Montemuscoli, an old mountain fortress, the seat of a once powerful family. It has been added to as late as the last century. Conceive the effect medieval tower on one side; and on the other, terraces designed by Rubattino-yes, terraces, my young friend, and gardens, they say, that Here Spiridion had an inspiration. 'The rent,' he said, 'the rent is stiff, but that you will not mind.' ('Now,' he thought, 'I have put off any possible suspicion.') Wroth, leaning eagerly forward on one elbow, had devoured the description.

Terraces, gardens,' he repeated,' and not all dilapidated, not merely a kind of old raven's nest on a crag? A place in fact one could bring a lady to?' the phrase escaped him unawares. whitened and shot a furtive glance at the old man.

He

"Eh, eh, we are coming to it,' commented La Roche-Amand within. But, outwardly, he wore an air of such elaborate abstraction that, had Wroth been less absorbed in his own devouring thought, he must have perceived how transparently he was being humoured.

'Heavens,' he went on aloud, 'how well we are, on your shady terrace this hot afternoon! But this Arno hath a savour none too agreeable. Dilapidated did you say? Nenni-the place is in magnificent repair, so they assure me, even luxurious. The last owner was a very rich man. He is dead, the race is extinct, his