the salt breath of ocean he could see what passed in the parlor. A
woman sat before the piano, running her snowy fingers idly across the
keys, now striking _fortissimo_ a wild stormy _fugue_ theme, and then
softly evoking a subtle minor chord that seemed the utterance of some
despairing spirit breathing its last prayer for peace.

Her Marie-Louise blue dress was girded at the waist by a belt and
buckle of silver, and the loose sleeve of the right arm was looped and
pinned up, showing the dimpled elbow and daintily rounded wrist
encircled by the jet serpent. Around her throat she had carelessly
thrown a lace handkerchief, and from the mass of hair that seemed
tiny, snow-capped waves, a cluster of blue nemophila leaned down to
touch the white forehead beneath, and peep at the answering blue
gleams in the large, shining, steely eyes. Her fingers strayed
listlessly into a _Nocturne_; but from the dreamy expression of the
face, upraised to gaze at the busts on the brackets above, it was
evident that her thoughts had wandered far away from _Addio del
Passato_, and were treading the drift-strewn strands of melancholy
memory.

Presently she rose, walked twice across the room, and came back to an
_etagere_ where stood an azure Bohemian glass vase, supported by
silver Tritons, and filled with late blue hyacinths and early
pancratiums.

Bending her regal head, she inhaled the mingled perfumes, worthy of
Sicilian or Cyprian meadows; and, while her slight fingers toyed with
the fragile petals, a proud smile lent its sad light to the chill
face, and she said aloud, as if striving to comfort herself,--

"'Not the ineffable stars that interlace
The azure canopy of Zeus himself
Have surer sweetness than my hyacinths
When they grow blue, in gazing on blue heaven,
Than the white lilies of my rivers, when
In leafy spring Selene's silver horn
Spills paleness, peace, and fragrance.'"

With a heavy sigh she turned away, and sat down in the rear room, near
the arch, where an easel now stood, containing a large, unfinished
picture; and, taking her ivory palette and brushes, she began to
retouch the violet robe of one of the figures.

Dr. Grey had seen more beautiful women among the gilded pillars and
frescoes of palaces, and amid the olives and vineyards of Parthenope;
but in Mrs. Gerome he found a fascinating mystery that baffled
analysis and riveted his attention. Neither young nor old, she had
crowned herself with the