port into the world of art! On reaching Florence she had fallen in love with it at first sight, and decided to pitch her tent there, which would have been all very well if she had fallen into the right hands; but she made her first fatal step in the selection of a teacher, partly through inexperience, partly because his appearance was artistic according to her preconceived ideas of the type-curly gray locks and rubbed velveteens-and chiefly, perhaps, because he was inexpensive and had a few sentences of English at his command. Fortunately for her, he was a good and kindly man, although evidently no artist. He told her that landscape-painting was nothing, that one might have stayed in America to do that; that the advantage of living under the shadow of the Pitti and the Uffizi was plainly the opportunity they afforded the student of art for copying their treasures. She was put relent lessly to work in the Galleries, instead of on the soft gray slopes of Fiesole; she was not even allowed the choice of her pictures. Her master was a provident man, and felt that he was doing her a service against her will in forcing her to copy those subjects for which he knew she would receive the most steady remuneration. He impressed her by his assertiveness, and, in her ignorance, she thought that an Italian artist must know best. But at first, although outwardly docile, she was inwardly rebellious; her poor little soul was thirsting for beauty, and underneath the instinctive obedience to authority there was the equally instinctive insubordination of the ideal, which has caused so many Puritan tragedies. She even tried to do a little congenial outdoor work on her own account on holidays, but she found that her eyes were not fresh enough, after a tiring week in the Galleries, to see the soft grays and sunny yellows of the happy Tuscan country correctly. Then her little stock of money melted away; news came of her father's death; she had no one to fall back upon if her own efforts should fail, and was forced to keep her Pegasus in the plow-harness whether or no. And so she slipped silently into the rank and file of the great dismal army of copyists, not loving her work, disillusioned as to her vocation, but dutiful and uncomplaining, shriveled, not soured, and patiently earning her bread

in a gray monotony of existence which matched her gown.

"She had no friends, and seemed neither to have nor to expect any pleasures. I could see that when she had resigned her artistic ambitions she had given up all thought of herself as any one to be indulged or entertained-perhaps she had felt that there would be less struggle if everything were thrown overboard than if she should try to cling to a part.

"She did not tell me all I am telling you, nor did I learn it all at once; it took several days of questioning and several nights of fitting the reticent little answers together and making deductions before I had it all clearly before me as I have told the story to you.

"She did not seem to mind my daily visits to the corner where her easel stood, but took me for granted, like everything else. in her life; I could not flatter myself that it gave her pleasure to see me, for, limited though my knowledge of women is, I should never have dreamed it possible for any woman under eighty to be so entirely free from even the most innocent coquetry in her intercourse with one of our sex. I don't know why I talked to her, or why she interested me. She was a plain little creature, without any particular charm, I suppose. I was immensely sorry for her, all the more so because she did not seem to be sorry for herself. I felt like tossing her mawkish Saint out of the window; I felt like shaking the acquiescence in fate out of her soul; I felt like throwing some purple mantle bordered with ermine over her gray gown! The fact is, I was as much alone in Florence as she was, and had nothing to do but meddle with what did not concern me!

"We did a good deal of talking. She had read much and understandingly, and had made herself a little world of abstract interests to take the place of real life. I was surprised at the quickness of her insight and the clearness of her judgment. We walked through the Gallery together sometimes during the short respites from work which she allowed herself, and it quite took my breath away to hear the little copyist of Carlo Dolce and Guido Reni point out the subtle beauties of a Leonardo, and find just the right words in which to express the simple dignity of

a Giotto. But what I liked best was to look at her when we passed the open window over the Arno. Then she would take off her spectacles (she only needed them for copying at close quarters), and her face would seem to expand like a flower in the sun. After seeing that change, as from drab to gold, two or three times, I was quite sure that she had made the mistake of her life in turning her back upon Nature, and I began to plot to bring them together again.

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"It was a wonderful spring; Florence was all sunshine and roses. I decided to do my best to make the little woman play truant, and suggested to her to put aside her painting for a day and come with me to the Certosa in the Val d'Ema. Its little cells look out over one of the most lovely views in the world, and after enjoying it we could lunch al fresco under some olive or ilex tree, and take in a sunset on our way home. As she hesitated moment with her answer, I added laughingly that I thought it would be quite proper for us even without a chaperon, as we were members of the same great American family, and neither of us in our first youth. I rather hoped that she might resent the latter reason, but I might have known better. I might have known, too, that she did not belong to the artificial class which measures right and wrong by the yardstick of etiquette.

"I was not doubting the propriety,' she answered simply, "but it mustn't cost too much, because I am rather less of a Croesus than usual this spring.'

"I knew that her measure of right and wrong would not allow her to accept of even this little excursion as a gift, so I had to content myself with assuring her that the expense would be very slight, as we should take one of the cheap public conveyances, and perhaps walk part of the way back. I only stipulated that I, as originator of the expedition, should be allowed to bring the lunch, promising that it should be most frugal. After weighing the matter a moment, she consented."

Russell paused, as if the reminiscence of the past were crowding out the present from his mind.

A brief "Go on" from Dunscombe roused him.

"Our picnic was a success. I had persuaded her to take her sketch-book,

and had put an old one of my own into the lunch-basket between the Chianti and the cold chicken. We talked, and sketched, and ate, and laughed, and wandered among the trees; and, before the end of our day, I felt something of the satisfaction of a doctor who sees that his cure is beginning to work. It was a pleasure to see how the sunshine and fresh air, and the glorious view of Florence lying beneath us like a sparkling jewel on the silver necklace of the Arno, put emphasis into her usually neutral personality. I could see that, although in accepting the treadmill life of a copyist she had gone back on' Nature, it had been largely from fear lest so great a love should interfere with the accomplishment of her daily tasks.

"Such a sight as this,' she acknowledged when I asked her why she did not make these little excursions more often'such a sight as this dazzles my eyes like staring at the sun; for days afterwards the pictures in the Gallery seem like black spots to me.'

"I was surprised at the sketch she made after luncheon, when the shadows began to lengthen. Although amateurish, it was suggestive and full of a loving truthfulness. I noticed that, in making it, her hand worked with much greater freedom than when copying, and that she did not match her colors with the same painful precision. When I told her that it was very good, she looked at me sharply to see if I meant it, and then I saw her face flush with real pleasure for the first time.

"She examined some old sketches in my book with much interest, and asked intelligent questions, but, having happened upon one which I had forgotten, a very horrid one of a battlefield during an action, she put down the book, looking rather pale; and, after a moment's hesitation, she asked me shyly why I had chosen to be a war artist, and whether I did not sometimes feel as if I had my art by the hair and were dragging it through the mire?

"It was what I had often felt; and I had often asked myself why I went on doing just by the force of routine what I had never ceased inwardly sickening at all these years. But I only told her that my war sketches had no pretensions to being art, that they were only a bread-and-butter trade like any other.

"Like mine,' she said, a little sadly.

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"Our first outing led to many during the next six weeks, to the frequent neglect of Carlo Dolce. We patronized every tram and vettura that led out of Florence into the Tuscan country. The lunch-basket and the sketch-books always accompanied us. They were pleasant days."

Russell stopped again. He had been walking up and down; now he came back to his seat.

"I am making my story far too long," he said; "the rest shall be told in as few words as possible. About two months after our first meeting we were spending an afternoon on the slope of Bello Squardo. Her sketch that day had been excellent. Indeed, she had been making steady progress, and, with a technical hint or two from me, had attained quite an astonishing freedom and security. It gave me great pleasure, for I felt that this renewed intimacy with Nature was my doing. I determined to speak to her seriously about her future, and to insist that she should not relapse into her former mechanical 'days' work.' She listened eagerly, her eyes (they were pretty without the spectacles) watching my face as I spoke. I don't know what I said, or how I said it; I only know that I must, quite unintentionally, have given her a wrong impression. I suppose I talked very earnestly, for I had the matter very much at heart; but I had no idea how earnest I must have seemed to her until I saw her face suddenly change, and shine out upon me as if lit by an inner sun. I had not noticed any difference in her before, except

that she talked more freely, and sketched better, and looked more alive; all of which I had put down to Nature's account. But now, all at once, I saw something in her eyes which even I, ignorant though I was in such matters, knew had not come there through Nature.

"Don't think me a conceited fool-I know very well it was not I, or my personal value; it was just the belief that she was cared for, she who had never been really cared for in her life! I noticed, too, now that I had been awakened, that her hair was done more becomingly, and that she had a little lace thing (jabot don't they call it?) down the front of her old gray gown.

"Never in all my life before did I pass such a bad quarter of an hour as after having made this discovery. I felt that she expected me to tell her that I cared for her. My instinctive feeling was that I must not undeceive her until I could think it over and find out how it would hurt her least. Fortunately, it was time to go back. So she kept her happy, expectant face, and probably put her own satisfactory construction upon my embarrassed silence on the way home.

My night was not a pleasant one. I had felt so secure, with my gray hair and her spectacles, that this was a bolt out of a blue sky. I had never once questioned our feelings towards each other-it had all seemed so natural, the intimate intercourse had just growed,' like Topsy. I knew that my holiday had been a very happy one, but love and marriage had always seemed as much outside of me and the possibilities of my life as a landed estate and a title, or a crown and scepter! I had been priding myself that, for once, I was really useful, in helping the first woman friend I had ever had to improve her life; and all the while I had been unconsciously doing my best to ruin it ! It was the belief that somebody cared for her that had brought back the color to her cheeks and to her existence; and, if I took it out again, the old gray would turn black I could not do it! If it had only been any one else, any one who had other windows through which the light might come when this one was walled up!

"Of course I would have married her if that would have helped matters, bad bargain though she would have found me;

but if the discovery that she expected it should prompt me to do that which had not been suggested by my care for her, she was far too clever to live long by my side without being undeceived; and it was the loss of her illusion which I dreaded for her; I knew that it was far more to her than any mere husband.

"By the time that the first light crept into my window I had decided what seemed then the best thing to do for her happiness, but I assure you that I felt like a raw recruit going under fire for the first time.

That evening, while the nightingales were singing, I took her for a walk in the Cascine. I think she knew what was coming, partly, for she had made herself look very nice, and her eyes had a soft sparkle. Of course I cannot tell you all I said, and I would not if I could; but I lied, and I think I must have lied well, for I saw no distrust in her face, nothing but pure confidence. I made her feel that I did care for her as much as she had thought; but I also gave her to understand that, for some indefinite and mysterious reason, marriage was impossible, and that I felt that the only course for me, now that I had told her my love, was to leave her. Probably my vague hints, which I tried to keep as free from falsehood as I could, gave her the impression that there was a terrible hereditary taint in my family, or some equally insurmountable obstacle. At all events, she was quite satisfied that it could not be, and was very reasonable and very brave, poor little woman!

"You must not mind too much,' she comforted me, as if it were I who most needed comfort; and, indeed, I'm not sure that it was not. We have been two lonely people all our lives, and now, even in separation, we can never be so lonely again.'

"She had not led a life of renunciation for nothing! She knew how to gather up, and make the most of, what little sunshine fell amidst her shadows!

"We said good-by under the great ilextrees. And-and that is all. I've not seen her since."

her; by accident a year or more ago from a lady who crossed on the steamer from Brindisi to Alexandria with me, and had been spending the winter in Florence. I could not help asking her if she had ever noticed a little woman in gray copying in the Galleries. At first she could not remember any such person, but when I went a little more into details she recognized the description, but told me that the artist whom she thought I must mean never worked in the Galleries; on the contrary, she had made quite a reputation with her little water-color sketches of the country about Florence, and sold them as fast as she could make them. Seeing that I was interested, she offered to show me one of them which she happened to have in her steamer-trunk. She brought it to me-a tender little sketch of one of our old picnic-grounds, with the lunchbasket and an empty Chianti flask in the foreground. She told me that the old basket was a familiar object in her pictures; that she almost always brought it into her foregrounds. She supposed it was

one of those artists' whims, like Wouverman's white horse. A friend of hers had taken her to the little woman's studio, up four or five flights of stairs in a shabby old "palazzo." I asked her how she looked and what she thought of her. I had to ask, although I dreaded her answer. My informant was a clever woman, given to putting her ideas into striking form.

"You want to know what I think of her?' she said. I will tell you. There are two kinds of old maids: those who are like sunsets, and those who are like the dull evenings of rainy days in which there has been no sun. The little lady about whom you ask is a sunset old maid— a bright, soft sunset.'"

Russell stopped. After a rather long pause he added: "I have often thought of that; it has consoled me in a measure, and yet it has made me restless, too.

"What do you think? Do you give me absolution, or should I have undeceived her?"

"Do you really want my opinion?" answered Dunscombe, bluntly. "Then here it is. I absolve you from being a knave,