ser fellow than it found me."

The steamer kept ploughing its broad pathway of foam through the
billows; a huge cloud of fantastic shape loomed up in the east, and
the vanishing land blended with and melted away among its fleecy
embankments.

"Are you perfectly sure, Jack," said Vincent, throwing the burning
stump of his cigar over the gunwale, "that the experiences of the past
year have not been all an excursion into the 'Arabian Nights'? If it
were not for that fine marble relief in my trunk which I bought of
that miserable buffoon in the Via Sistina, I should easily persuade
myself that the actual world were bounded on the east by the Atlantic
and on the west by the Pacific Ocean. I was just considering whether I
should try to smuggle it through the custom-house, or whether,
perhaps, it would be wiser to give Uncle Sam his due."

"And what does the relief represent?" asked Cranbrook, half
indifferently.

"It is a copy from an antique one. Agamemnon robbing Achilles of
his--"

Cranbrook gave a start, and walked rapidly toward the other end of the
boat. In half an hour he returned, stopped in front of Vincent,
grasped his hand warmly and said:

"Harry, let us agree never to refer to that which is passed. In your
life it was an episode, in mine it was a catastrophe."

Since that day, Annunciata's name has never passed their lips.

There is, however, an epilogue to this tale which cannot well be left
untold. In the winter of 187-, ten years after their first Italian
sojourn, the two friends again visited Rome together. One beautiful
day in February, they found themselves, perhaps not quite by accident,
in the neighborhood of the well-remembered villa. They rang the bell
at the garden gate and were admitted by a robust young man who seemed
to be lounging among the overgrown hedges in some official capacity.
The mossy Triton was still prosecuting his thankless task in the midst
of his marble basin; the long stairs to the terrace were yet as damp
and slippery as of old, and the noseless Roman senator was still
persevering in his majestic attitude, although a sprig of maiden-hair
was supporting its slender existence in the recess of his countenance
which had once been occupied by his stately nose. Vincent and
Cranbrook both regarded these familiar objects with peculiar emotions,
but faithful to their agreement, they made no comment. At last they
stopped before the sarcophagus--and verily Babetta was still there. A