It was autumn, but such an autumn as often puts summer to shame. The skies were as blue, the air as soft, as those of July; but that the leaves had changed their emerald hues for those of russet-brown and gold, one might well be tempted to believe that the summer was still with us, and the winter afar off.

The sun poured its generous warmth over the Villa Capri, laving the white stone front of the graceful house with its bright rays, and tinting the statues on the terraces, which, in Italian fashion, rose in three tiers from the smooth lawn to the salon and dining-room windows. On the highest of the three terraces, lying back in a hammock chair of velvet tapestry, was an old lady with a face of aristocratic beauty set in snow-white hair. At a little distance, pacing up and down, were two young ladies, the younger of the two with her arm round the waist of her companion, and her beautiful young face turned up with that air of pure devotion and affection which only exists in the heart of one woman for another.

The old lady was the Princess Rivani, the mother of Florence and Ferdinand; and the two girls were Margaret and Florence. It had come to pass that Margaret was an honored inmate of the Villa Capri.

The Princess Florence had fallen in love with Margaret's lovely face, and its sad, gentle smile, and still more with her sweet voice, and had taken a fancy that Margaret's presence in the villa was necessary to her existence; and as princesses' whims are born but to be gratified, Margaret was here.

The mother, who made a rule never to deny her darling child any innocent and harmless desire, welcomed Margaret with the gentle sweetness of a patrician, combined with the frank candor of an old lady.

"I am very glad to see you, Miss Leslie," she had said. "You have won my daughter's heart, and your presence seems necessary to her happiness. I trust you will not let her be a burden to you. Please consider the villa your home while it seems good to you to remain with us, and I hope that will be for a long period."

That was all; but as the signora—as the elder princess was called—always said what she meant, and never more than she meant, it was a good deal. She had scanned Margaret's face when she had been presented to her, and had listened to her voice, and was convinced that Margaret was a lady, and a fit companion for the princess, and she had said so in a sentence to her daughter.

"I like your friend, Florence, and I can understand the charm she exerts over you. It is a very lovely face, a——"

"Is it not, mamma?" exclaimed Florence enthusiastically.

"—But it is a very sad one. I am afraid Miss Leslie has had some great trouble, one of those sorrows which set their mark upon the heart, as a fell disease brands the face."

"But you will not like her the less for that, mamma?" Florence had said, and the signora had replied with a sigh:

"No, rather the more, my dear," for the signora had suffered also in her life.

So the princess had her wish gratified, and Margaret came to the villa, and the princess, instead of growing tired of her, as one would be tempted to prophesy, seemed to grow more attached and devoted as the days rolled into weeks, and the weeks threatened to glide into months.

If it had not been for the experience of the grandeur of Leyton Court, Margaret might have been rather overwhelmed by the splendor of Capri Villa, for the Rivanis were great people, of the best blood in Italy, and lived in a state befitting their rank.

The villa was not so large as the Court—that Court which Blair had often told her she would one day be mistress of—but it was exquisitely situated, and the interior was replete with the refined splendor of a palace.

The suit of rooms allotted to Margaret were large and grand enough for a duchess, but when she murmured something in deprecation of such sumptuous apartments, the princess had opened her blue eyes wide and smiled with surprise.

"Oh, but I want you to be comfortable, dear," she said. "I want you to feel at home—that is the English phrase, isn't it?"

"Yes, but 'at home' all my rooms would have gone into the smallest you have given me," Margaret had said, smiling.

"Really! Well, at any rate you need large rooms, for are you not an artist, and do you not want a studio? Ferdinand has given orders that the large room with the big window is to be fitted up as a painting-room for you; and he promised to choose some pictures and some curios, and all those kind of things you artists love, to furnish it. He has gone to Rome, you know."

Margaret looked rather grave. A prince is a prince to us English people, and it rather alarmed her that she should be the cause of so much trouble to his highness.

The princess laughed at her serious countenance.

"Do not look so grave," she said. "It was Ferdy's own idea. He chose the rooms, and said how nice the big one would do for a studio. You can't think how thoughtful he is—when he chooses to think at all."

"His highness is very good," said Margaret, "but I am ashamed to give him so much trouble."

The princess laughed again.

"Ferdy loves trouble. His great grief is that he has nothing to do, for you see there is nothing to employ him here. The steward looks after the land, and the major domo does all the business in the villa, and there is nothing for poor Ferdy to do when he is away from the court. I want you to like my brother, Miss Leslie," she added.

"I should be very ungrateful if I did not," said Margaret.

All this had occurred on the first day of her arrival; since then the studio had been furnished and she had been made to feel as if she were part and parcel of the Rivani family. Just before Margaret's arrival, the prince had been called away by his duties to the Italian Court, and the three ladies were left alone, so that Margaret had as yet had no opportunity of thanking him for his kindness, of which she was reminded every time she entered the luxurious studio he had furnished for her.

Margaret's lines had indeed fallen in pleasant places, and if the possession of good and true friends and the comforts of a luxury brought to the highest state of perfection, could have brought happiness, she should have been happy. But the sadness which wrapped her as in a veil through which she smiled, and sometimes laughed, never left her, and she spent hours in her studio, with the brush lying untouched, and her dark eyes fixed dreamily upon the hills which rose before her windows. She could not prevent her thoughts from traveling back towards the past, that past with which she had done forever, and often in the gloaming of the late summer evenings she would see Blair's face rise before her, and hear his voice as she had heard it during those few happy weeks when she had believed him to be her lover and husband.

There was only one way of escape from these thoughts, this flitting back of her heart which brought her so keen an anguish, and that was in work.

She had come to the villa on the understanding that she should give lessons in painting to the princess, but Florence soon showed the futility of such an arrangement.

"Dear, you will never make me an artist," she said; "never, do what you will! I can learn to paint a barn, or a village pump, so that I needn't write 'this is a barn,' or 'this is a pump,' underneath them, but that is all. Don't waste your valuable time upon an impracticable—isn't that a splendid English word?—subject, but do your own work. I'll bring you my dreadful daubs, and you shall tell me where I am wrong, but you sha'n't work and drudge like an ordinary drawing-mistress. I daren't let you, for the last words Ferdy said were, 'Don't abuse Miss Leslie's good nature, and bore her! Remember that she is an artist, and she's something to the world that you must not rob it of!' and Ferdy said wisely."

"I think he spoke too generously, and thought only of the stranger within his gates," said Margaret.

"But mamma thinks the same," said the princess. "She has set her heart upon your painting a great picture while you are at the villa. You know that mamma and Ferdy are devoted to art; I think that either of them would rather be an artist—a true artist—than Ruler of Italy, and if you want to do them an honor, why paint a grand picture, exhibit it at the Salon, and date it from the Villa Capri."

Life at the villa, Margaret found, was one of routine—pleasant, easy routine—but still carefully measured out and planned.

At eight the great bell in the campanile rang for rising; at nine the household gathered in the hall for prayers; at half-past breakfast was served. At one o'clock the luncheon bell rang, and at seven the major domo, in his solemn suit of black, stood at the drawing-room door to announce dinner.

There was an army of servants, male and female, and the three ladies were attended with as much state as if the king were present.

Between breakfast and dinner Margaret worked.

Art is a jealous mistress; she will not share her shrine with any other god, though it be Cupid himself. If Margaret had remained the happy wife of Lord Blair, it is a question whether any more pictures of worth would have left her easel, but now, with her great sorrow ever present with her, she felt that her work alone would bring her partial forgetfulness.

And she did work. At first she thought she would paint a view of Florence from the hills, and she made a very fair sketch; but, about a week after her arrival at the villa she was sitting before a fresh canvas, and, her thoughts flying back to the past, she, all unwittingly, took up the charcoal and began to draw the outline of the Long Rock at Appleford. It was not until she had sketched in the whole of the scene that she became conscious of what she was doing; and when she had so become conscious, she took up her brush to wipe the marks out. Then she hesitated. A desire to paint the scene took possession of her, and she went on with it.

She painted the rock, with the sea raging round it, and the sky threatening it from above; and, as she painted, the whole scene came back to her, just as a scene which a novelist has witnessed with his own eyes comes back to him.

And as the picture grew, it exerted a fascination for her which she could not repel.

On this she worked day after day, carefully locking up the unfinished picture in the mahogany case which the prince had supplied with the rest of the furniture of the studio.

She felt that she could do nothing until it was finished. One day the princess knocked at the door, and Margaret, before she opened it, hurriedly inclosed the canvas in its mahogany case.

"Why, you have shut your picture up," said the princess in a tone of disappointment.

"I will show it to you, if you wish," said Margaret, laying her hand upon the key; but the princess stopped her.

"No, no," she said. "Do not. I think I understand. It is your great picture, is it not? And you do not want any one to see it until it is finished."

Margaret was silent for a moment, then, as the princess put her arm round her, and laid her cheek against Margaret's, she said:

"If I ever am so fortunate as to do anything approaching 'great,' this will be it, and I do not want you to see it until it is finished, princess."

"I would not see it for worlds until you say that I may, dear," said the girl, lovingly.

Day by day Margaret worked at the picture; it took possession of her body and soul. All the anguish of that awful night, when she battled against life and prayed for death, was portrayed in that savage sea and darkling sky.

She finished the scene, and was looking at it one day, with the dissatisfaction that the true artist always feels, when she thought of the words of Turner: "No landscape, beautiful as it may be, is complete without the human figure, God's masterpiece in nature."

She pondered over this for awhile, then, taking up her brush, she painted on the top of the rock the figure of a woman. It was that of a young girl, half kneeling, half lying, the water lapping savagely at her feet, her face upturned to the angry sky.

Half unconsciously she painted that face as her own—a girl's face, white and wan, marked with an agony beyond that of the fear of death. Despair and utter hopelessness spoke eloquently in the dark eyes and the attitude of the figure; and when she had finished it, she stood and gazed at it, half frightened by its realism.

She knew that if it was not a great picture, it was a picture at which no one could look at and pass by unmoved.

She locked the door of the cabinet which inclosed the canvas, and went on the terrace and found the princess waiting for her. The girl put her arm round Margaret's waist, and led her up and down, the signora looking on at the pair from her chair smilingly.

"And have you nearly finished your picture, dear?" asked Florence.

"Yes," said Margaret, dreamily, "it is quite finished."

"Oh, how splendid!" exclaimed Florence. "Ferdinand will be so pleased. He is coming this evening, you know, dear."

"I did not know," said Margaret, still absently.

"Ah, no, I forgot. I did not tell you, because mamma cautioned me not to say anything that might disturb you at your work. He is coming, and rather a large party with him."

Margaret, as the girl spoke, remembered noticing that some preparations seemed to have been going on in the villa for some days past, as if for many guests; she had thought little of it at the time, her mind being absorbed in her work.

"My brother often brings some of his friends back with him," said Florence; "they like the quietude of Florence after the fuss and bustle of the court. How glad I shall be to get him back, not that I have missed him so much this time, for, you see, I have had you, dear."

"I am afraid I have been a very poor companion," said Margaret.

"You have been the dearest, the best, and the sweetest a girl was ever lucky enough to find!" responded the princess, earnestly.

They walked up and down the terrace for some time, talking about the prince and his many virtues, as a sister who adores her brother will talk to her closest bosom friend; then Margaret went to her own room.

The thought of the coming influx of visitors disturbed her; like most persons who have endured a great sorrow, she shrank from meeting new faces, and she resolved to keep to her own rooms, as it was understood she should do when she pleased, while these gay people remained.

Toward evening the guests arrived, and Margaret, from behind the curtains of her long window, saw several handsome carriages drive up to the great entrance, and a group of ladies and gentlemen—most of the latter in military or court uniforms; in their midst stood the tall figure of the prince, towering above the rest, his handsome face wearing the grave smile of welcome, as he ushered his friends into the house, in which were the usual stir and excitement attending the arrival of a large party.

Margaret drew the lace curtains over her window, and took up a book. Presently the dressing-bell rang, then the dinner-bell, and soon after there came a knock at the door. In response to her "Come in," the Princess Florence entered in her rich evening dress, and ran across the room.

"Why, dear, aren't you dressed?" she exclaimed.

"I am not coming down to dinner to-night, Florence, if you will excuse me," said Margaret, gently.

Florence stopped short, and looked at her with keen disappointment in her blue eyes.

"Not coming down to dinner? Oh, Miss Leslie, I am so sorry! And Ferdy, he will be so disappointed!"

"The prince," said Margaret, smiling at the girl's earnestness. "I do not suppose your brother will notice my absence, Florence."

"Not notice!" exclaimed Florence. "Why, he asked after you almost directly after he had got into the house; and he has inquired where you were at least half a dozen times."

"The prince is very kind," said Margaret, "but I will not come down to-night, dear."

"You do not like all these people coming?" said the princess; "and yet you would like them, they are all so nice and—and friendly: it is a sort of holiday for them, you know."

"I am sure they are very nice, dear," said Margaret, "but I would rather be alone."

There was nothing more to be urged against such quiet decision, and the princess kissed her and reluctantly went down to the salon.

A maid who had been set apart to wait upon Margaret brought her her dinner, and Margaret took up her book afterward, and tried to lose herself in it. Now and again she took a candle and looked at her picture, and every time she looked at it the present faded and the past stood out before her.

What was Blair doing now? Had the woman, his wife, returned to him? Where was he, and was he happy? No, Margaret thought, there could be no happiness for him unless he were utterly destitute of heart and could forget the girl whose love for him had led her to ruin and dishonor!

From these sad thoughts she was aroused by a knock at the door and the voice of the princess calling softly:

"May we come in, dear?"

Margaret opened the door, and there stood the prince beside his sister.

He was in evening dress, and upon his bosom glittered a cluster of orders; he looked the patrician he was, but there was a deep humility and reverence in the manner of his bow and the way in which he extended his hand to her.

"Will you forgive this intrusion, Miss Leslie?" he said in his excellent English, which was made more musical rather than less by the slight accent. "I have come to beg you to give us the honor and pleasure of your company. Florence tells me that you are not ill, or I should not have bothered you."

Margaret made room for them to enter, standing with downcast eyes under his gaze, which was full of admiration and respectful regard.

"Pray come," he said with an eagerness only half concealed. "For all our sakes, if not for your own, and I should add for your own, too; for there are some people here whom I think you would like to meet." He mentioned some names of which Margaret had heard as those of great people in Rome. "And there are some artists, too, Miss Leslie; surely you will not refuse them the pleasure and honor of making your acquaintance. My mother, too, begs that, if you feel well enough, you will come down. There is Count Vasali, the great musician; he will play for us, I hope."

"Oh, do come, if only for an hour, dear," said the princess, adding her prayer.

Margaret hesitated, and while she hesitated the prince went slowly up to the easel upon which the picture stood, with the cabinet unlocked.

He started, and drew a little nearer, then looked from Margaret to the picture, and from the picture to Margaret again.

"Is this——?" he said, in a low voice, then stopped.

"Oh, it is the picture! May I look now he has seen it?" exclaimed the princess; then she, too, drew near, and stood speechless.

"I—I hope you like it," said Margaret, with the nervousness of an artist whose work is being surveyed and criticised.

"Like it!" exclaimed the prince, gravely. "It is——" He stopped again, then turned to Margaret with almost solemn earnestness. "Miss Leslie, I am not an artist; I do not presume to be a critic, but I am convinced that this is a marvelous picture! It is, I think, a great work. I cannot tell you how it moves me! But there are others in the house who are more capable of judging and appreciating it. You will let me show it to them?"

Margaret flushed and then turned pale. She would have kept the picture to herself, for the present, at any rate; but then she considered the matter in the few seconds while he stood waiting. After all, she was an artist; it was by her art that she must exist, and it was well that her picture should be seen.

"I will do as you wish, prince," she said.

"No, not I, but you!" he said, gently, with a little thrill in his voice that touched Margaret, and made the princess turn and look at him.

"Take it, then," said Margaret.

He took it from the easel, and locked it in the cabinet carefully.

"And you will come down? You must!" urged Florence eagerly. "You must hear what they say. I know what it will be: they will say what Ferdinand said!"

"Very well," said Margaret, with a little sigh.

The princess clapped her hands.

"Oh, I am so glad. I will come for you in half an hour. Will that do?"

"Miss Leslie will understand that she will meet friends," said the prince, laying a delicate stress on the word, "though she has not seen them yet."

And with this courtly, kindly word of encouragement, he carried off the picture.

Margaret changed her plain black dress for one of black lace, which, simple as it was, and without ornament, lent to her graceful figure a distinguished air which even Worth himself sometimes cannot bestow, and before the half hour was up the princess came for her.

"Dressed already, dear! Oh, and how well you look! May I kiss you? Ah! after all, it is only the English who really know how to dress. Why, yours is the prettiest costume in the house——"

"It is the simplest, dear, I am sure," said Margaret.

The princess led her to her mother, and the old lady made room for her on the settee.

"I am glad you have come, my dear Miss Leslie," she said in her slow, gentle voice; "we should all have been so sorry if you had not."

Margaret said nothing, but presently gained courage to look round.

Some lady was at the piano playing, and there were a few persons round her; but the rest of the party was gathered together round some object at the end of the room, about which candles and lamps had been arranged, and she knew it was her picture.

Presently she saw the prince approaching, with an old gentleman at his side, an old man with long silvery hair and pale face, from which the dark eyes shone with a strange brilliance that was yet soft and dreamy.

"Miss Leslie," said the prince, "let me introduce Signor Alfero to you."

It was the great artist whose works Margaret had stood before with admiration and awe.

She inclined her head without a word. The great artist's eyes rested on her keenly for a moment, then he said:

"To have seen your picture, Miss Leslie, is to desire a knowledge of you. You are very young!"

It was a strange speech, and it brought the color to Margaret's face.

"I had expected to see an older person—one whose experience would account for her success; but it is always so, it is to youth all things are possible. My dear, you have painted a wonderful picture! It is a work of genius. I cannot tell you how it has moved me. How came you to paint it?"

Margaret looked up questioningly and fearfully.

"I mean," said the great man with a kindly smile, "where did you get your subject? Waves and rocks are old as the hills, but your waves and rocks are new because they are so terribly real. And the figure too! Why, yes—it is your own! Miss Leslie, your picture is a great one. I tell you this without flattery, and as one of our trade. It is great, and it will bring you fame."

Fame! Alas, it might bring her fame, but of what value would fame be to her now?

Perhaps the absence of all joy in her face as she received the tidings, touched the great man, for he said:

"But we do not care for that, do we? not so greatly, that is. It is the satisfaction in our work, is it not? Will you come with me and let me ask you a few questions about one or two things in your picture?"

He held out his arm, and Margaret, still speechless, let him lead her to the easel upon which the picture stood.

The group, clustering round it, made way for the pair, looking at Margaret, and whispering together in the well-bred way which conceals the act.

The great artist asked his questions—they related to various lights and shades, and wave formations—and Margaret answered modestly, in her low, sweet voice; then the prince, who stood on the other side of her, found himself besieged by applications for introductions, and quietly he brought one after another of the group to Margaret, and made them known to her.

It was evident that she was the celebrity of the evening. The fame which the great artist had prophesied had come already, for there was not one there who was not willing to blow a blast upon the trumpet which announces the appearance of a great one to the waiting and welcoming world.

It was not only the fact that she had painted a picture which Alfero had pronounced "great," but her beauty, with its touching air of subdued sadness, took possession of them.

They gathered around her, these noblemen and famous ladies, and made much of her, until the prince, fearing that she would be tired and overdone, offered her his arm, and led her, on the excuse of showing her the flowers, toward the conservatory.

Margaret was tired and excited, though there was no trace of it in the sweet, pale face, and she was glad of a few minutes' rest.

The prince led her to a seat placed amidst a cluster of ferns and exotics, and, taking up a fan, gently fanned her.

"I spoke truly, you see, Miss Leslie," he said. "I cannot tell you with what joy and pride—yes, pride!—Signor Alfero's words filled me. But we will not speak of them again to-night; though I trust they have made you as happy as they have made me."

There was something in his voice which half frightened Margaret, and, as she looked up to reply, she found his eyes fixed upon her with a light in them which caused hers to droop, though why she knew not.

"The signor—every one—has been too good to me," she said.

"No," he said, with a suppressed earnestness. "That no one who knows you could be."

He was silent a moment, then he looked round.

"Ah, how glad I am to be at home!" but as he spoke his eyes returned to her face.

"And they are all glad to have you, prince," said Margaret.

"All?" he said. "May I include you, Miss Leslie?"

A faint flush rose to Margaret's face, then it grew pale again.

"I?" she said. "Oh, yes, I am glad!"

"You make me very glad to hear you say that," he said in a low voice, bending down so that he almost whispered the words in her ears. "I have thought of you very often while I have been away, Miss Leslie, wondering, and hoping that you might be happy here at the villa, and longing to get back that I might see you again."

Margaret's heart beat fast.

She told herself that it was only the language of courtly kindness; warmer than an Englishman would use, but meaning no more than usual.

"What beautiful flowers!" she said, looking at a bunch of camellias before her.

He glanced at her dress, unadorned by a single article of jewelry, then crossing the conservatory, picked a snow-white blossom and brought it to her.

"Will you accept this?" he said.

"Oh, thank you!" said Margaret. "How lovely it is," and she held it in her hand.

"Will you wear it?" he asked, and his voice grew low and almost tremulous.

Margaret started and her face went white.

They were almost the very words Blair had spoken in the little garden at Leyton Court that never-to-be-forgotten night, and they brought back the past and her own position with a lurid distinctness.

"No, no!" she breathed, scarcely knowing what she said, and she let the flower drop into her lap.

The prince's face grew grave and pained.

"Have—have I offended you?—have I been too presumptuous?" he asked, humbly.

"No, no!" she said, again. Then she looked up. "Presumptuous, your highness? You! to me! The presumption would be mine if I—if I were to accept——" she paused.

"Do I understand you?" he said, drawing nearer, his handsome, patrician face flushing, his eyes seeking hers with an eager intentness. "Miss Leslie, my poor flower would be honored by the touch of your hand; will you honor me also by wearing it? Miss Leslie——" he paused a moment, then went on—"I do not think you understand. Shall I tell you now, or are you too tired and wearied? I think you must know what I would say. Such love as mine will break through all guards, try as we will to hide it, and proclaim itself to the beloved one——"

Margaret started to her feet with a wild horror in her eyes.

"Do not—speak another word!" she breathed. "I—I cannot listen! I—take me back, please, your highness!"

The prince's face paled, and his lips shut tightly; but with the courtly grace which could not forsake him, even at such a moment, he took her hand and drew it through his arm.

"Your lightest word is law to me," he murmured. "I will say no more—to-night; but I must speak sooner or later. But no more to-night! Not one word, be assured. You may trust me, if you will not do more!"

Margaret was speechless, her heart throbbing with a dreadful amazement and horror. That he—the great prince—should have spoken to her—to her upon whose life rested so dark a shame, almost maddened her.

In silence he led her into the salon. As he did so, a certain noble lady, an old schoolfellow of his mother, who was sitting beside her, looked up at them, then turned to the signora.

"This is a very beautiful girl, signora!"

The old lady glanced at Margaret and smiled placidly.

"Miss Leslie?—yes."

"Very," said the countess. "There is something sad and spirituelle about her which renders her loveliness something higher than the ordinary beauty of which one sees so much nowadays."

"Yes," said the signora. "I fear she has passed through some great sorrow. There is a look in her eyes when she is silent and thinking, which makes one tempted to get up and kiss her."

"A dangerous charm, that," remarked the countess dryly.

"A charm; yes, that is the word," assented the signora, smiling. "She has charmed the heart out of Florence, and has crept into mine, poor girl."

"Poor girl!" echoed the countess, dryly; then, as it seemed abruptly and inconsequentially, she said, "How handsome Ferdinand has grown!"

The signora let her eyes linger upon him with all a mother's pride and tenderness.

"Yes; has he not? He is like his father."

"And his mother," said the countess. "He is a great favorite at court, my dear. There is a career before him if there should happen to be a war, as I suppose there will be."

"I could do without a career for him if the price is to be a war," said the signora, sighing.

"He seems very attentive to Miss Leslie," remarked the countess, looking at the two young people as they crossed the room.

The prince had found a seat for Margaret, but still remained by her side, bending over her with that rapt attention which distinguished him.

"Oh yes," assented the signora, placidly. "He thinks a great deal of her. I imagine that he is very pleased at the success of her picture. Ferdinand is devoted to art; and says that the villa is renowned as the birthplace of so great a picture as Miss Leslie has painted."

"Hem!" said the countess; then, with a frown, she said, "Don't you think that the charm you speak of may exert itself over Ferdinand?"

"Over Ferdinand?" the signora glanced across at them with a serene smile.

"Yes, over Ferdinand," repeated the old countess, almost impatiently, "or do you think that the male heart is less susceptible than the female. Do you suppose that Ferdinand is blind to Miss Leslie's loveliness, and that it is only revealed to you and Florence?"

"What do you mean?" asked the signora.

"What do I mean? Why, my dear Lucille, aren't you afraid that, to speak plainly, Ferdinand may—fall in love with Miss Leslie?"

The old princess looked at her for a moment with a mild surprise, then she drew her slight figure up to its full height and smiled with placid hauteur.

"Ferdinand will not fall in love with Miss Leslie," she said, with an air of calm conviction.

"Oh," said the countess, dryly. "Does he wear an amulet warranted to protect him from such eyes as hers, such beauty as hers?"

"Yes," said the mother. "Ferdinand wears such an amulet. It is the consciousness of his rank and all its duties and responsibilities. Miss Leslie is a most charming girl, and Florence and I are attached to her; but Ferdinand——" she paused and smiled. "I know Ferdinand very well, I think, my dear, so well, that if you were to hint that he was likely to fall in love with one of the maid-servants I should be as little alarmed."

The countess looked at her with a strange smile, then glanced at the prince and Margaret.

"My dear Lucille," she said, "I beg your pardon. Of course, you are quite right, and there is no danger. There has never been an instance of one of our rank marrying beneath him, has there?" and she laughed ironically.

The signora smiled and shook her head.

"My dear," she said, "there isn't a prouder man in Italy than Ferdinand. I am not at all uneasy."