d invited him to make the
journey on the admiral's galley, with the king's ambassador and his
secretary, de Soto.

The very same day the happy artist obtained a bill of exchange on a house
on the Rialto, and now it was settled, he was going to Italy.

Coello was obliged to submit, and his kind heart again showed itself; for
he wrote letters of introduction for Ulrich to his old artist friends in
Venice, and induced the king to send the great Titian a present--which
the ambassador was to deliver. The court-artist obtained from the latter
a promise to present his pupil Navarrete to the grey-Haired prince of
artists.

Everything was now ready for departure; Ulrich again packed his
belongings in the studio, but with very different feelings from the first
time.

He was a man, he now knew what the right "word" was, life lay open before
him, and the paradise of Art was about to unclose its gates.

The studies he had finished in Madrid aroused his compassion; in Italy he
would first really begin to become an artist: there work must bring him
what it had here denied: satisfaction, success! Gay as a boy, half
frantic with joy, happiness and expectation, he crushed the sketches,
which seemed to him too miserable, into the waste-paper basket with a
maul-stick.

During this work of destruction, Isabella entered the room.

She was now sixteen. Her figure had developed early, but remained petite.
Large, deep, earnest eyes looked forth from the little round face, and
the fresh, tiny mouth could not help pleasing everyone. Her head now
reached only to Ulrich's breast, and if he had always treated her like a
dear, sensible, clever child, her small stature had certainly been
somewhat to blame for it. To-day she was paler than usual and her
features were so grave, that the young man asked her in surprise, yet
full of sympathy:

"What is the matter, little one? Are you not well?"

"Yes, yes," she answered, quickly, "only I must talk with you once more
alone."

"Do you wish to hear my confession, Belita?"

"Cease jesting now. I am no longer a child. My heart aches, and I must
not conceal the cause."

"Speak, speak! How you look! One might really be alarmed."

"If I only can! No one here tells you the truth; but I--I love you; so I
will do it, ere it is too late. Don't interrupt me now, or I shall lose
courage, and I will, I must speak."

"My studies lately have not pleased you; nor me either. Your father. . . ."

"He has