t in
her own heart, to be pondered on from time to time, but in
silence,--a reticence too natural and legitimate not to be
followed by a hundred others of a similar kind.

M. Linders, for reasons of his own, with which we need not
concern ourselves here, spent the following autumn and winter
in Florence, establishing himself in an apartment for the
season, contrary to his usual practice of living in hotels;
and this was how it happened that Madelon made two friends who
introduced quite a new element into her life, one which, under
other circumstances, might hardly have entered into it as a
principle of education at all. The rooms M. Linders had taken
were on the third floor of a large palazzo with many
occupants, where a hundred feet daily passed up and down the
common staircase, the number of steps they had to tread
increasing for the most part in direct proportion to their
descent in the social grade which, with sufficiently imposing
representatives on the first floor, reached its minimum, in
point of wealth and station, in the fifth storey garret. On
the same floor as Madelon and her father, but on the opposite
side of the corridor, lived an American artist; and M. Linders
had not been a week in the house before he recognized in him
an ancient _confrere_ of his old Parisian artist days, who,
after many wanderings to and fro on the earth, had finally
settled himself in Florence. The old intimacy was renewed
without difficulty on either side. M. Linders was made free of
the American's _atelier_, and he, for his part, willingly smoked
his pipe of an evening in the Frenchman's little salon. He was
a great black-bearded yellow-faced fellow, with a certain
careless joviality about him, that made him popular, though
leading a not very respectable life; always extravagant,
always in debt, and not averse to a little gambling and
betting when they came in his way. He was a sufficiently
congenial spirit for M. Linders to associate with freely; but
he was kind-hearted, honourable after his own fashion, and had
redeeming points in an honest enthusiasm, in a profound
conviction of the grand possibilities of life in general, and
of his art in particular. He was no great artist, and his
business consisted mainly in making copies of well-known
pictures, which he did with great skill, so that they always
commanded a ready sale in the Florence market. But he also
painted a variety of original subjects; and, in unambitious
moments