you are
our obedient child, as you used to be."

"I will do anything you wish," cried Dino, passionately, "so long as I
bring no unhappiness upon others. I do not wish to be rich at Brian's
expense."

"He has renounced his birthright," said the Prior. "You will not have to
fight him, my tender-hearted Dino. You will have a much harder foe--a
woman. The estate has passed into the hands of a Miss Elizabeth Murray."

CHAPTER XV.

THE VILLA VENTURI.

An elderly English artist, with carefully-trimmed grey hair, a
gold-rimmed eye-glass, and a velvet coat which was a little too hot as
well as a little too picturesque for the occasion, had got into
difficulties with his sketching apparatus on the banks of a lovely
little river in North Italy. He had been followed for some distance by
several children, who had never once ceased to whine for alms; and he
had tried all arts in the hope of getting rid of them, and all in vain.
He had thrown small coins to them; they had picked them up and clamoured
only the more loudly; he had threatened them with his sketching
umbrella, whereat they had screamed and run away, only to return in the
space of five seconds with derisive laughter and hands outstretched more
greedily than ever. When he reached the spot where he intended to make a
sketch, his tormentors felt that they had him at their mercy. They
swarmed round him, they peeped under his umbrella, they even threw one
or two small stones at his back; and when, in desperation, their victim
sprang up and turned upon them, they made a wild dash at his umbrella,
which sent it into the stream, far beyond the worthy artist's reach.
Then they took to their heels, leaving the good man to contemplate
wofully the fate of his umbrella. It had drifted to the middle of the
stream, had there been caught by a stone and a tuft of weed, and seemed
destined to complete destruction. He tried to arrest its course, but
could not reach it, and nearly over-balanced himself in the attempt;
then he sat down upon the bank and gave vent to an ejaculation of mild
impatience--"Oh, dear, dear, dear me! I wish Elizabeth were here."

It was so small a catastrophe, after all, and yet it called up a look of
each unmistakable vexation to that naturally tranquil and abstracted
countenance, that a spectator of the scene repressed a smile which had
risen to his lips and came to the rescue.

"Can I be of any assistance to you, sir?" he said.

The artist gave