An elderly English artist, with carefully-trimmed grey hair, a gold-rimmed eye-glass, and a velvet coat which was a little too hot as well as a little too picturesque for the occasion, had got into difficulties with his sketching apparatus on the banks of a lovely little river in North Italy. He had been followed for some distance by several children, who had never once ceased to whine for alms; and he had tried all arts in the hope of getting rid of them, and all in vain. He had thrown small coins to them; they had picked them up and clamoured only the more loudly; he had threatened them with his sketching umbrella, whereat they had screamed and run away, only to return in the space of five seconds with derisive laughter and hands outstretched more greedily than ever. When he reached the spot where he intended to make a sketch, his tormentors felt that they had him at their mercy. They swarmed round him, they peeped under his umbrella, they even threw one or two small stones at his back; and when, in desperation, their victim sprang up and turned upon them, they made a wild dash at his umbrella, which sent it into the stream, far beyond the worthy artist's reach. Then they took to their heels, leaving the good man to contemplate wofully the fate of his umbrella. It had drifted to the middle of the stream, had there been caught by a stone and a tuft of weed, and seemed destined to complete destruction. He tried to arrest its course, but could not reach it, and nearly over-balanced himself in the attempt; then he sat down upon the bank and gave vent to an ejaculation of mild impatience—"Oh, dear, dear, dear me! I wish Elizabeth were here."

It was so small a catastrophe, after all, and yet it called up a look of each unmistakable vexation to that naturally tranquil and abstracted countenance, that a spectator of the scene repressed a smile which had risen to his lips and came to the rescue.

"Can I be of any assistance to you, sir?" he said.

The artist gave a violent start. He had not previously seen the speaker, who had been lying on the grass at a few yards' distance, screened from sight by an intervening clump of brushwood. He came forward and stood by the water, looking at the opened umbrella.

"I think I could get it," he said. "The water is very shallow."

"But—my dear sir—pray do not trouble yourself; it is entirely unnecessary. I do not wish to give the slightest inconvenience," stammered the Englishman, secretly relieved, but very much embarrassed at the same time. "Pray, be careful—it's very wet. Good Heaven!" The last exclamation was caused by the fact that the new-comer had calmly divested himself of his boots and socks and was stepping into the water. "Indeed, it's scarcely worth the trouble that you are taking."

"It is not much trouble to wade for a minute or two in this deliciously cool water," said the stranger, with a smile, as he returned from his expedition, umbrella in hand. "There, I think you will find it uninjured. It's a wonder that it was not broken. You would have been inconvenienced without it on this hot day."

He raised his hat slightly as he spoke and moved away. The artist received another shock. This young man—for he moved with the strength and lightness of one still young, and his face was a young face, too—this young man had grey hair—perfectly grey. There was not a black thread amongst it. For one moment the artist was so much astonished that he nearly forgot to thank the stranger for the service that he had rendered him.

"One moment," he said, hurriedly. "Pray allow me to thank you. I am very much obliged to you. You don't know how great a service you have done me. If I can be of any use to you in any way——"

"It was a very trifling service," said the young man, courteously. "I wish it had been my good fortune to do you a greater one. This was nothing."

"Foreign!" murmured the artist to himself, as the stranger returned to his lair behind the thicket, where he seemed to be occupying himself in putting on his socks and boots once more. "No Englishman would have answered in that way. I wish he had not disappeared so quickly. I should like to have made a sketch of his head. Hum! I shall not sketch much to-day, I fancy."

He shut up his paint-box with an air of resolution, and walked leisurely to the spot where the young man was completing his toilet. "I ought perhaps to explain," he began, with an air which he fancied was Machiavellian in its simplicity, "that the loss of that umbrella would have been a serious matter to me. It might have entailed another and more serious loss—the loss of my liberty."

The young man looked up with a puzzled and slightly doubtful expression. "I beg your pardon," he said. "The loss of——"

"The loss of my liberty," said the Englishman, in a louder and rather triumphant tone of voice. "The fact is, my dear sir, that I have a very tender and careful wife, and an equally tender and careful daughter and niece, who have so little confidence in my power of caring for my own safety that they have at various times threatened to accompany me in all my sketching expeditions. Now, if I came home to them and confessed that I had been attacked by a troop of savage Italian children, who tossed my umbrella into the river, do you think I should ever be allowed to venture out alone again?"

The young man smiled, with a look of comprehension.

"Can I be of any further use to you?" he said. "Can I walk back to the town with you, or carry any of your things?"

"You can be of very great use to me, indeed," said the gentleman, opening his sketch-book in a great hurry, and then producing a card from some concealed pocket in his velvet coat. "I'm an artist—allow me to introduce myself—my name is Heron; you would be of the very greatest use to me if you would allow me to—to make a sketch of your head for a picture that I am doing just now. It is the very thing—if you will excuse the liberty that I am taking——"

He had his pencil ready, but he faltered a little as he saw the sudden change which came over his new acquaintance's face at the sound of his proposition. The young man flushed to his temples, and then turned suddenly pale. He did not speak, but Mr. Heron inferred offence from his silence, and became exceedingly profuse in his apologies.

"It is of no consequence," said the stranger, breaking in upon Mr. Heron's incoherent sentences with some abruptness. "I was merely surprised for the moment; and, after all—I think I must ask you to excuse me; I have a great dislike—a sort of nervous dislike—to sitting for a portrait. I would rather that you did not sketch me, if you please."

"Oh, certainly, certainly; I am only sorry that I mentioned it," said Mr. Heron, more formally than usual. He was a little vexed at his own precipitation, and also by the way in which his request had been received. For a few moments there was a somewhat awkward silence, during which the young man stood with his eyes cast down, apparently absorbed in thought. "A striking face," thought Mr. Heron to himself, being greatly attracted by the appearance of his new friend; "all the more picturesque on account of that curious grey hair. I wonder what his history has been." Then he spoke aloud and in a kindlier tone. "I will accept your offer of help," he said, "and ask you to walk back with me to the town, if you are going that way. I came by a short cut, which I am quite sure that I shall never remember."

The young man awoke from his apparently sad meditations; his fine, dark eyes were lightened by a grateful smile as he looked at Mr. Heron. It seemed as though he were glad that something had been suggested that he could do. But the smile was succeeded by a still more settled look of gloom.

"I must introduce myself," he said. "I have no card with me—perhaps this will do as well." He held out the book that he had been reading; it was a copy of Horace's Odes, bound in vellum. On the fly-leaf, a name had been scrawled in pencil—John Stretton. Mr. Heron glanced at it through his eye-glass, nodded pleasantly, and regarded his new friend with increased respect.

"You're a scholar, I see," he said, good-humouredly, as they strolled leisurely towards the little town in which he had told John Stretton that he was staying; "or else you would not bring Horace out with you into the fields on a sunshiny day like this. I have forgotten almost all my classical lore. To tell the truth, Mr. Stretton, I never found it very much good to me; but I suppose all boys have got to have a certain amount of it drilled into them——?" He stopped short in an interrogative manner.

"I suppose so," said Stretton, without a smile. His eyes were bent on the ground; there was a joyless contraction of his delicate, dark brows. It was with an evident effort that he suddenly looked up and spoke. "I have an interest in such subjects. I am trying to find pupils myself—or, at least, I hope to find some when I return to England in a week or two. I think," he added with a half-laugh, "that I am a pretty good classic—good enough, at least, to teach small boys!"

"I dare say, I dare say," said Mr. Heron, hastily. He looked as if he would like to put another question or two, then turned away, muttered something inaudible, and started off upon a totally different subject, about which he laid down the law with unaccustomed volubility and decision. Stretton listened, assented now and then, but took care to say little in reply. A sudden turn in the road brought them close to a fine, old building, grey with age, but stately still, at the sight of which Mr. Heron became silent and slackened his pace.

"A magnificent old place," said Stretton, looking up at it as his companion paused before the gateway.

"Picturesque, but not very waterproof," said Mr. Heron, with a dismal air of conviction. "It is what they call the Villa Venturi. There are some charming bits of colour about it, but I am not sure that it is the best possible residence."

"You are residing here?"

"For the present—yes. You must come in and see the banqueting-hall and the terrace; you must, indeed. My wife will be delighted to thank you herself—for the rescue of the umbrella!" and Mr. Heron laughed quietly below his breath. "Yes, yes"—as Stretton showed symptoms of refusing—"I can take no denial. After your long, hot walk with me, you must come in and rest, if it is but for half-an-hour. You do not know what pleasure it gives me to have a chat with some one like yourself, who can properly appreciate the influence of the Renaissance upon Italian art."

Stretton yielded rather than listen to any more of such gross and open flattery. He followed Mr. Heron under the gateway into a paved courtyard, flanked on three sides by out-buildings and a clock tower, and on the fourth by the house itself. Mr. Heron led the way through some dark, cool passages, expatiating as he went upon the architecture of the building; finally they entered a small but pleasant little room, where he offered his guest a seat, and ordered refreshments to be set before him.

"I am afraid that everyone is out," Mr. Heron said, after opening and shutting the doors of two or three rooms in succession, and returning to Stretton with rather a discomfited countenance. "The afternoon is growing cool, you see, and they have gone for a drive. However, you can have a look at the terrace and the banqueting-hall while it's still light, and we shall hope for the pleasure of your company at some other time when my wife is at home, Mr. Stretton, if you are staying near us."

"You are very kind," murmured Stretton. "But I fear that I must proceed with my journey to-morrow. I ought not to stay—I must not——"

He broke off abruptly. Mr. Heron forgot his good manners, and stared at him in surprise. There was something a little odd about this grey-haired young man after all. But, after a pause, the stranger seemed to recover his self-possession, and repeated his excuses more intelligibly. Mr. Heron was sorry to hear of his probable departure.

They wandered round the garden together. It was a pleasant place, with terraced walks and shady alcoves, so quaint and trim that it might well have passed for that fair garden to which Boccaccio's fine ladies and gallant cavaliers fled when the plague raged in Florence, or for the scene on which the hapless Francesca looked when she read the story of Lancelot that led to her own undoing. Some such fancies as these passed through the crannies of Stretton's mind while he seemed to be listening to Mr. Heron's mildly-pedantic allocutions, and absorbed in the consideration of mediÆval art. Mr. Heron was in raptures with his listener.

"Oh, by-the-bye," said the artist, suddenly, as they paused beside one of the windows on the terrace, "if I may trouble you to wait here a minute, I will go and fetch the sketch I have made of the garden from this point. You will excuse me for a moment. Won't you go inside the house? The window is open—go in, if you like."

He disappeared into another portion of the house, leaving Stretton somewhat amused by his host's unceremonious demeanour. He did not accept the invitation; he leaned against the wall rather languidly, as though fatigued by his long walk, and tried to make friends with a beautiful peacock which seemed to expect him to feed it, and yet was half-afraid to approach.

As he waited, a gentle sound, of which he had been conscious ever since he halted close to the window, rose more distinctly upon his ear. It was the sound of a voice engaged in some sort of monotonous reading or reciting, and it seemed first to advance to the window near which he stood and then to recede. He soon discovered that it was accompanied by a soft but regular footfall. It was plain that somebody—some woman, evidently—was pacing the floor of the room to which this window belonged, and that she was repeating poetry, either to herself or to some silent listener. As she came near the window, Stretton heard the words of an old ballad with which he was himself familiar—

The voice died away as it travelled down the space of the long room. Presently it came nearer; the verses were still going on—

"Betty," said a feeble little voice—a child's voice, apparently quite close to the window now—"I want you to say those two verses over again; I like them. And the one about the old moon with the new moon in her arms; isn't that pretty?"

"You like that, do you, my little Jack?" said the woman's voice; a rich, low voice, so melodious in its loving tones that Stretton positively started when he heard it, for it had been carefully subdued to monotony during the recitation, and he had not realised its full sweetness. "Do you know, darling, I thought that you were asleep?"

"Asleep, Betty? I never go to sleep when you are saying poetry to me. Aren't you tired of carrying me?"

"I am never tired of carrying you, Jack."

"My own dear, sweet Queen Bess!" There was the sound of a long, loving kiss; and then the slow pacing up and down and the recitation re-commenced.

Stretton had thought that morning that nothing could induce him to interest himself again in the world's affairs; but at that moment he was conscious of the strongest possible feeling of curiosity to see the owner of so sweet a voice. The slightest movement on his part, the slightest possible push given to the window, which opened into the room like a door and was already ajar, would have enabled him to see the speakers. But he would not do this. He told himself that he ought to move away from the window, but self-government failed him a little at that point. He could not lose the opportunity of hearing that beautiful voice again. "It ought to belong to a beautiful woman," he thought, with a half smile, "but, unfortunately, Nature's gifts are distributed very sparingly sometimes. This girl, whosoever she may be—for I know she is young—has a lovely voice, and probably a crooked figure or a squint. I suppose she is Mr. Heron's daughter. Ah, here he comes!"

The artist's flying grey beard and loose velvet coat were seen upon the terrace at this moment. "I cannot find the sketch," he cried, dolorously. "The servants have been tidying the place whilst I was out—confound them! You must positively stop over to-morrow and see it. This is the banqueting-room—why didn't you go in?" And he pushed wide the window which the young man had refrained from opening a single inch.

A flood of light fell on a yard or two of polished oak flooring; but at first Stretton could see nothing more, for the rest of the room seemed to be in complete darkness to his dazzled eyed. The blinds of the numerous windows were all drawn down, and some minutes elapsed before he could distinguish any particular object in the soft gloom of the apartments. And then he saw that Mr. Heron was speaking to a lady in white, and he discovered at once, with a curious quickening of his pulses, that the reciter of the ballad stood before him with a child in her arms.

She was beautiful, after all! That was Stretton's first thought. She was as stately as a queen, with a natural crown of golden-brown hair upon her well-poised head; the grand lines of her figure were emphasized by the plainness of her soft, white dress, which fell to her feet in folds that a sculptor might have envied. The only ornament she wore was a string of Venetian beads round the milky whiteness of her throat, but her beauty was not of a kind that required adornment. It was like that of a flower—perfect in itself, and quite independent of exterior aid. In fact, she was not unlike some tall and stately blossom, or so Stretton thought, no exotic flower, but something as strong and hardy as it was at the same time delicately beautiful. Her eyes had the colouring that one sees in the iris-lily sometimes—a tint which is almost grey, but merges into purple; eyes, as the poet says—

In her arms she carried little Jack Heron, and by the way in which she held him, it was plain that she was well accustomed to the burden, and that his light weight did not tire her well-knit, vigorous limbs. His pale, little face looked wistfully at the stranger; it was a curious contrast to the glowing yet delicate beauty and perfect health presented by the countenance of his cousin Elizabeth.

Meanwhile, Mr. Heron was introducing the stranger, which he did with a note of apology in his voice, which Stretton was not slow to remark. But Elizabeth—he did not catch her name, and still thought her to be a Miss Heron—soon put him at his ease. She accompanied the artist and his friend round the banqueting-hall, as they inspected the fine, old pictures with which it was hung; she walked with them on the terrace—little Jack still cradled in her arms; and wheresoever she went, it seemed to Stretton that he had never in all his life seen any woman half so fair.

He did not leave the house, after all, until late that night. He dined with the Herons; he saw Mrs. Heron, and Kitty, and the boys; but he had no eyes nor ears for anyone but Elizabeth. He did not know why she charmed him; he knew only that it was a pleasure to him to see and hear her slightest word and movement; and he put this down to the fact that she had a sympathetic voice, and a face of undoubted beauty. But in very truth, John Stretton—alias Brian Luttrell—returned to his inn that night in the brilliant Italian moonlight, having (for the first time in his life, be it observed) fallen desperately, passionately in love. And the woman that he loved was the heiress of the Luttrell estates; the last person in the world whom he would have dreamt of loving, had he but known her name.