on just about the same
Mondays and Tuesdays and Wednesdays, the year round? You will not do for
a story-book then, but won't you do better for life? And, after all,
a lively murderer is a great deal more sensational than you could ever
be."

"Even when I ran away?"

"Yes. Now, you see, I have been humdrum again, and half preached a
sermon."

"All right, sir; so long as you take me for a text, you may preach as
you want to, and by and by, I dare say, I shall agree with you."

"It would have been a great deal more interesting if you had married
that Italian."

"How do you know I could have married that Italian, my lord? He is going
to marry a girl as much more beautiful than I am as--as Bero himself is
than you--and yet I would rather have you. And now, don't you dare look
at me in that way. I'll never say another nice thing to you if you do.
This artist will think we are--"

"Lovers, my dear. And aren't we?"

* * * * *

Ten days later Norman entered with a letter for Mae. "Read it to
me," she said, throwing back the blinds and leaning her elbows on the
window-cushion.

"It is from Lillia. Would you rather read it yourself?" "O, no." So
Norman read what Lillia had written in her pretty broken English:

"My DEAR MISS MAE:--Thank you of all my heart for your so lovely gift.
I have had so little home since long, long ago my mother died, and now
I am to have one as the maid in the picture has. We will marry the fifth
day of May at five o'clock, and will wish you to be there. Don't forget
me.

"LILLIA."

"Signor Bero has added a postscript, Mae, which you can translate better
than I." And Norman handed her the letter. Mae translated it thus:

"Did you know all that the picture would say to me, Signorina? Receive
my thanks for it, too, and believe I shall always live worthy of my
Italy, my wife and friends that I see in the picture, and of another
friend who lives so far away, whom I shall never see again, if I have
such a friend. Think of my beautiful Lillia on our wedding day. We shall
be married at St. Andrea's, at vesper time.

"Bero."

"And this is the day," said Mae, dropping the note.

"And the very hour, allowing the bride and the sun a few minutes each,"
added Norman, glancing at the clock.

They gaze quietly out of the window of their lodgings on the Borgo
Ognissante, but Mae sees far away beyond the Arno, into the church of
St. Andrea,--music, and pomp, and beautiful ceremony, and be