e generally patronizes the railway. All the officials know
him, and he gets into the guard's van as a matter of course. Sometimes
he will alight at a station en route, and walk the rest of the way. But
if he is lazily inclined, he does not stir till the train reaches its
destination. At the end of every six months or so, the railway
authorities send the bill of Leo's journeyings in to his master, when
it is always settled without difficulty."

"And who IS his master?" I ventured to ask.

Cellini's face grew serious and absorbed, and his eyes were full of
grave contemplation as he answered:

"His master, mademoiselle, is MY master--one who among men, is
supremely intelligent; among teachers, absolutely unselfish; among
thinkers, purely impersonal; among friends, inflexibly faithful. To him
I owe everything--even life itself. For him no sacrifice, no extreme
devotion would be too great, could I hope thereby to show my gratitude.
But he is as far above human thanks or human rewards as the sun is
above the sea. Not here, not now, dare I say to him, MY FRIEND, BEHOLD
HOW MUCH I LOVE THEE! such language would be all too poor and
unmeaning; but hereafter--who knows?----" and he broke off abruptly
with a half-sigh. Then, as if forcing himself to change the tenor of
his thoughts, he continued in a kind tone: "But, mademoiselle, I am
wasting your time, and am taking no advantage of the favour you have
shown me by your presence to-day. Will you seat yourself here?" and he
placed an elaborately carved oaken settee in one corner of the studio,
opposite his own easel. "I should be sorry to fatigue you at all," he
went on; "do you care for reading?"

I answered eagerly in the affirmative, and he handed me a volume bound
in curiously embossed leather, and ornamented with silver clasps. It
was entitled "Letters of a Dead Musician."

"You will find clear gems of thought, passion, and feeling in this
book," said Cellini; "and being a musician yourself, you will know how
to appreciate them. The writer was one of those geniuses whose work the
world repays with ridicule and contempt. There is no fate more
enviable!"

I looked at the artist with some surprise as I took the volume he
recommended, and seated myself in the position he indicated; and while
he busied himself in arranging the velvet curtains behind me as a
background, I said:

"Do you really consider it enviable, Signor Cellini, to receive the
world's ridicule and contempt