d much kindness upon a man whom you do not know."

"My dear Reanda, who can understand you? But as for kindness, do not let
me hear the word between you and me. It has no meaning. We are always
good friends, as we were when I was a little girl and used to play with
your paints. You have given me far more than I can ever repay you for,
in your works. I do not flatter you, my friend. Cupid and Psyche, there
in your frescoes, will outlive me and be famous when I am forgotten--yet
they are mine, are they not? And you gave them to me."

The sweet young face turned to him with an unaffected, grateful smile.
His sad features softened all at once.

"Ah, Donna Francesca," he said gently, "you have given me something
better than Cupid and Psyche, for your gift will live forever in
heaven."

She looked thoughtfully into his eyes, but with a sort of question in
her own.

"Your dear friendship," he added, bending his head a little. Then he
laughed suddenly. "Do not give me a wife," he concluded.

"And you, Reanda--do not make wicked caricatures of women you have only
seen once! Besides, I go back to it again. I saw you start when she
passed you at the door. You were surprised at her beauty. You must admit
that. And then, because you are irritated with her, you take a brush and
daub that monstrous thing upon the wall! It is a shame!"

"I started, yes. It was not because she struck me as beautiful. It was
something much more strange. Do you know? She is the very portrait of
Donna Maria, who was in the Carmelite convent at Subiaco, and who was
burned to death. I have often told you that I remembered having seen her
when I was a boy, both at Gerano and at the Palazzo Braccio, before she
took the veil. There is a little difference in the colouring, I think,
and much in the expression. But the rest--it is the image!"

Francesca, who could not remember her ill-fated kinswoman, was not much
impressed by Reanda's statement.

"It makes your caricature all the worse," she answered, "since it was
also a caricature of that holy woman. As for the resemblance, after all
these years, it is a mere impression. Who knows? It may be. There is no
portrait of Sister Maria Addolorata."

"Oh, but I remember well!" insisted Reanda.

"Well, it concludes nothing, after all," returned Francesca, with much
logic. "It does not make a fiend of the poor nun, who is an angel by
this time, and it does not make Miss Dalrymple less beautiful. And now,
Sig