?" he said with impressive emphasis, at the same time
drawing nearer and fixing upon me the penetrating glance of his dark
fathomless eyes. It then seemed to me that some great inner force
compelled me to answer this half-inquiry, in words of which I had taken
no previous thought, and which, as I uttered them, conveyed no special
meaning to my own ears.

"Of course," I said slowly, as if I were repeating a lesson, "you would
not so betray the high trust committed to your charge."

"Well said!" replied Cellini; "you are fatigued, mademoiselle. Au
revoir! Till to-morrow!" And, throwing open the door of his studio, he
stood aside for me to pass out. I looked at him inquiringly.

"Must I come at the same time to-morrow?" I asked.

"If you please."

I passed my hand across my forehead perplexedly, I felt I had something
else to say before I left him. He waited patiently, holding back with
one hand the curtains of the portiere.

"I think I had a parting word to give you," I said at last, meeting his
gaze frankly; "but I seem to have forgotten what it was." Cellini
smiled gravely.

"Do not trouble to think about it, mademoiselle. I am unworthy the
effort on your part."

A flash of vivid light crossed my eyes for a second, and I exclaimed
eagerly:

"I remember now! It was 'Dieu vous garde' signor!"

He bent his head reverentially.

"Merci mille fois, mademoiselle! Dieu vous garde--vous aussi. Au
revoir."

And clasping my hand with a light yet friendly pressure, he closed the
door of his room behind me. Once alone in the passage, the sense of
high elation and contentment that had just possessed me began gradually
to decrease. I had not become actually dispirited, but a languid
feeling of weariness oppressed me, and my limbs ached as though I had
walked incessantly for many miles. I went straight to my own room. I
consulted my watch; it was half-past one, the hour at which the hotel
luncheon was usually served. Mrs. Everard had evidently not returned
from her drive. I did not care to attend the table d'hote alone;
besides, I had no inclination to eat. I drew down the window-blinds to
shut out the brilliancy of the beautiful Southern sunlight, and
throwing myself on my bed I determined to rest quietly till Amy came
back. I had brought the "Letters of a Dead Musician" away with me from
Cellini's studio, and I began to read, intending to keep myself awake
by this means. But I found I could not fix my attention on the