om the coachman and drove rapidly away.

Edwin looked after him. He could not be angry; only yesterday he had
himself weighed possibilities and struggled with impressions, which
placed this mysterious creature in no more favorable light. But to hear
these thoughts expressed by another, as a matter of course, gave him a
feeling akin to physical pain.

He had taken two volumes of Goethe to carry to her. Now he thought it
would be the wisest course to avoid her house, her presence, and any
further intercourse with her. But her face rose before his memory for a
moment, her voice sounded in his ear, and all hesitation was over.
Suppose she was better than she seemed? And what would she think of the
strange man, who had at first forced himself so eagerly upon her, and
then never appeared again?

But at least he would not see her to-day, and therefore merely handed
the books to the striped waistcoat, and in reply to the boy's question
whether he would come in, answered dryly: "It was not necessary, he
would bring the next volumes at the end of the week."

As he went down stairs, he praised himself for his resolution and
determined not even to look up at her windows. But this was beyond his
strength. He even remained standing on the shady side a moment, as if
uncertain which way to go, and allowed his eyes to wander, apparently
by chance, toward the windows with the palms and the bird cage. He
fancied he saw something moving behind the drawn curtains. The
thought that it might be a man's head shot through his heart like a
burning-iron. He closed his eyes and walked on.

He had promised to commence his lessons at the little house in the
lagune to-day. As he mechanically turned his steps in that direction,
it seemed almost impossible to retain any connected thoughts. Besides,
the interview with the little artist and his daughter appeared as far
behind him as if months had intervened, and was a matter of as much
indifference as the people who passed him. He resolved to merely go
there, excuse himself for to-day, and shake off the whole engagement he
had undertaken, as best he could.

But the reception he met with in the little house, baffled his designs.

The artist, clad in his thread-bare velvet coat, with a barette shaped
cap set jauntily over his left ear, was standing in the door-way, and
as soon as he saw Edwin approaching between the wood piles, turned back
into the entry, calling: "He's coming, he's coming!" Then he