ed town itself no one was
astir. One solitary Englishman made his way alone and almost unnoticed
through the queer zig-zag streets, up the worn grey steps by the famous
statute of Minerva, and on to the terraced walk, fronting which were the
aristocratic villas of the little Italian town.

It was a solitude which was pleasing to him, for it was very evident
that he was no curious tourist, or casual visitor of any sort. His eyes
were full of that eager half-abstracted look which so clearly denotes
the awakening of old associations, quickened into life by familiar
surroundings; and, indeed, it was so. To Bernard Maddison, every stone
in that quietly sleeping, picturesque old town spoke with a language of
its own. The very atmosphere, laden with the sultry languorous heat of a
southern sun, seemed charged with memories. Their influence was strong
upon him, and he walked like a man in a dream, until he reached what
seemed to be his destination, and here he paused.

He had come to the end of the terraced walk, the evening promenade of
the whole town. Before him was a small orange grove, whose aromatic
odor, faintly penetrating the still air, added one more to his stock of
memories. On his right hand was a grey stone wall, worn and tottering
with age, and overhung with green creepers and shrubs, reaching over and
hanging down from the other side, and let into it, close to him, was a
low nail-studded door of monastic shape, half hidden by a luxurious
drooping shrub, from amongst the foliage of which peeped out star-like
clusters of soft scarlet flowers.

For many moments he stood before that door, with his hand resting upon
the rusty latch, lingering in a sort of apathy, as though he were
unwilling to disturb some particular train of thought. Then a
mellow-sounding bell from a convent in the valley below startled him,
and immediately he lifted the latch before him. There was no other
fastening, and the door opened. He stepped inside, and carefully
reclosed it.

He was in a garden, a garden of desolation, which nature seemed to have
claimed for her own and made beautiful. It was a picture of luxuriant
overgrowth. The grass on the lawns had become almost a jungle. It had
grown up over the base of the deep grey stone basins of exquisite shape
and carving, the tiny statuettes tottering into ruin, and the worn old
sun-dial, across which the slanting rays of the sun still glanced.
Weeds, too, had crept up around them in pictures