ng, what friends they were bound to meet. From Marseilles to
Leghorn, she was the only one of the women-passengers who was not sick;
and she was called upon for help in different languages, which she could
understand only through the teachings of her heart.

It was this same teacher that led her to understand Ernest's friends in
Florence, when she had found them, and that led them to understand her.
Ernest was in much the same state as when they wrote. He was growing
stronger, but his mind seemed to wander.

"And do you know, dear lady," said Monica, Carlo's mother, "that we fear
he has been starving,--starving, too, when we, his friends, had plenty,
and would have been glad to give him? He was to have been paid for his
work when he had finished it; and he had given up his other work for his
master, that be might complete his own statue. Oh, you should see that!
He is putting it into the marble,--or taking it out, rather, for it has
life almost, and springs from the stone."

"But Ernest?" asked Violet.

"Well, then, just for want of money, he was starving,--so the doctor
says, now. I suppose he was too proud to write home for money, and his
wages had stopped. And he was too proud to eat our bread. That was hard
of him. Just the poor food that we have, to think he should have been
too proud to let us give it him!--that was not kind."

Ernest did not recognize Violet at first, but she took her place in the
daily care of him. Monica begged that she would prepare food for him
such as he had been used to have at home. She was very sure that would
cure him. It would be almost as good for him as his native air. She
was very glad a woman had come to take care of him. "His brother's
betrothed,--a sister,--she would bring him back to life as no one else
could."

Violet did bring him back to life. Ernest had become so accustomed to
her presence in his half-conscious state, that he never showed surprise
at finding her there. He hardly showed pleasure; only in her absence his
feverish restlessness returned; in her presence he was quiet.

He grew strong enough to come out into the air to walk a little.

"I must go to work soon," he said one day. "Monsieur will be coming for
his Psyche."

"Your Psyche! I have not seen it!" exclaimed Violet. "I have not dared
to raise the covering."

They went in to look at it. Violet stood silent before it. Yes, as
Monica had said, it was ready to spring from the marble. It seemed
almost t