Brian—or to avoid confusion, let us call him by the name that he had adopted, Stretton—rose early, drank a cup of coffee, and was sitting in the little verandah outside the inn, looking dreamily out towards a distant view of the sea, and thinking (must the truth be told?) of Elizabeth, when a visitor was announced. He looked round, and, to his surprise, beheld Mr. Heron.

The artist was graver in manner and also a little more nervous than usual. After the first greetings were over he sank into an embarrassed silence, played with his watch-chain and his eye-glass, and, at last, burst somewhat abruptly into the subject upon which he had really come to speak.

"Mr. Stretton," he said, "I trust that you will excuse me if I am taking a liberty; but the fact is, you mentioned to me yesterday that you thought of taking pupils——"

"Yes," Stretton answered, simply. "I should be very glad if I could find any."

"We think that we could find you some, Mr. Stretton."

The young man's pale face flushed; but he did not speak. He only looked anxiously at the artist, who was pulling his pointed grey beard in a meditative fashion, and seemed uncertain how to proceed with his proposition.

"I have two boys running wild for want of a tutor," he said at last. "We shall be here some weeks longer, and we don't know what to do with them. My wife says they are too much for her. Elizabeth has devoted herself to poor little Jack (something sadly wrong with his spine, I'm afraid, Mr. Stretton). Kitty—well, Kitty is only a child herself. The point is—would it be a waste of your time, Mr. Stretton, to ask you to spend a few weeks in this neighbourhood, and give these boys two or three hours a day? We thought that you might find it worth your while."

Stretton was standing, with his shoulder against one of the vine-clad posts that supported the verandah. Mr. Heron wondered at his discomposure; for his colour changed from red to white and from white to red as sensitively as a girl's, and it was with evident difficulty that he brought himself to speak. But when he spoke the mystery seemed, in Mr. Heron's eyes, to be partly solved.

"I had better mention one thing from the very first," said the young man, quietly. "I have no references. I am afraid the lack of them will be a fatal drawback with most people."

"No references!" stammered Mr. Heron, evidently much taken aback. "But—my dear young friend—how do you propose to get a tutor's work without them?"

"I don't know," said Stretton, with a smile in which a touch of sternness made itself felt rather than seen. "I don't suppose that I shall get very much work at all. But I hope to earn my bread in one way or another."

"I—I—well, I really don't know what to say," remarked Mr. Heron, getting up, and buttoning his yellow gloves reflectively. "I should have no objection. I judge for myself, don't you know, by the face and the manner and all that sort of thing; but it's a different thing when it comes to dealing with women, you know. They are so particular——"

"I am afraid I should not suit Mrs. Heron's requirements," said Stretton, in a very quiet tone.

"It isn't that exactly," said Mr. Heron, hesitating; "and yet—well, of course, you know it isn't the usual thing to be met with the plain statement that you have no references! Not that I might even have thought of asking for them; ten to one that it would ever have occurred to me—but my wife——. Come, you don't mean it literally? You have friends in England, no doubt, but you don't want to apply to them."

"Excuse me, Mr. Heron; I spoke the literal truth. I have no references to give either as to character, attainments, or birth. I have no friends. And I agree with you and Mrs. Heron that I should not be a fit person to teach your boys their Latin accidence—that's all."

"Not so fast, if you please," said Mr. Heron, more impressed by Stretton's tone of cold independence than he would have been by sheaves of testimonials to his abilities; "not so fast, my good fellow. Now, will you do me a favour? Let me think the matter over for half-an-hour, and come to you again. Then we will decide the matter, one way or the other."

"I should prefer to consider the matter decided now," said Stretton.

"Nonsense, my dear sir, you must not be hasty. In half-an-hour I shall see you again," cried the artist, as he turned his back on the young man, and walked off towards the Villa Venturi, swinging his stick jauntily in his hand. Stretton watched him, and bit his lip.

"I was a fool to say that I wanted work," he said to himself, "and perhaps a greater fool to blurt out the fact that I had no respectable references so easily. However, I've done for myself in that quarter. The British dragon, Mrs. Grundy, would never admit a man as tutor to her boys under these mysterious circumstances. All the better, perhaps. I should be looked upon with suspicion, as a man 'under a cloud.' And I should not like that, especially in the case of that beautiful Miss Heron, whose clear eyes seem to rebuke any want of candour or courage by their calm fearlessness of gaze. Well, I shall not meet her under false pretences now, at any rate." And then he gave vent to a short, impatient sigh, and resumed the seat that he had vacated for Mr. Heron's benefit.

He tried to read; but found, to his disgust, that he could not fix his mind on the printed page. He kept wondering what report Mr. Heron was giving to his wife and family of the interview that he had had with the English tutor "without references."

"Perhaps they think that I was civil to the father because I hoped to get something out of them," said Stretton to himself, frowning anxiously at the line of blue sea in the distance. "Perhaps they are accusing me of being a rank impostor. What if they do? What else have I been all my life? What a fool I am!"

In despair he flung aside his book, went up to his bed-room, and began to pack the modest knapsack which contained all his worldly wealth. In half-an-hour—when he had had that five minutes' decisive conversation with Mr. Heron—he would be on his way to Naples.

He had all but finished his packing when the landlord shuffled upstairs to speak to him. There was a messenger from the Villa Venturi. There was also a note. Stretton opened it and read:—

"Dear Mr. Stretton,—Will you do me the favour to come up to the villa as soon as you receive this note? I am sorry to trouble you, but I think I can explain my motive when we meet.

"Yours truly,

"Alfred Heron."

Stretton crumpled the note up in his hand, and let it drop to the floor. He glanced at his knapsack. Had he packed it too soon or not?

He followed the servant, whom he found in waiting for him—a stolid, impenetrable-looking Englishman, who led the way to an entrance into the garden of the villa—an entrance which Stretton did not know.

"Is your master in the garden? Does he wish me to come this way?" he asked, rather sharply.

The stolid servant bowed his head.

"My master desired me to take you to the lower terrace, sir, if you didn't find it too 'ot," he said, solemnly. And Stretton said nothing more. The lower terrace? It was not the terrace by the house; it was one at the further end of the garden, and, as he soon saw, it was upon a cliff overlooking the sea. It was overshadowed by the foliage of some great trees, and commanded a magnificent view of the coast, broken here and there into inlets and tiny bays, beyond which stretched "the deep sapphire of the sea." A slight haze hung over the distance, through which the forms of mountain peaks and tiny islets could yet be clearly seen. The wash of the water at the foot of the cliff, the chirp of the cicadas, were the only sounds to be heard. And here, on a low, wooden bench, in the deepest and coolest shade afforded by the trees, Stretton found—not Mr. Heron, as he had expected, but—Elizabeth.

He bowed, hesitating and confused for the moment, but she gave him her white hand with a friendly look which set him at his ease, just as it had done upon his entrance to the villa on the previous evening.

"Sit down, Mr. Stretton," she said, "will you not? My uncle has gone up to the house for a paper, or a book, or something, and I undertook to entertain you until he came back. Have we not a lovely view? And one is always cool here under the trees, now that the heats of summer are past. I think you will find it a good place to read in when you are tired of giving lessons—that is, if you are going to be so kind as to give lessons to our troublesome boys."

She had looked at him once, and in that glance she read what would have taken Mr. Heron's obtuse male intellect weeks to comprehend. She saw the young man's slight embarrassment and the touch of pride mingling with it; she noticed the spareness of outline and the varying colour which suggested recent illness, or delicacy of health; above all, she observed the expression of his face, high, noble, refined, as it had always been, but darkened by some inexplicable shadow from the past, some trace of sorrow which could never be altogether swept away. Seeing all these things, she knew instinctively that the calmest and quietest way of speaking would suit him best, and she felt that she was right when he answered, in rather low and shaken tones—

"Pardon me. It is for Mr. Heron to decide; not for me."

"I think my uncle has decided," said Elizabeth. "He asked me to ascertain when you would be willing to give the boys their first lesson."

"He said that, now? Since he saw me?" cried Stretton, as if in uncontrollable surprise.

Elizabeth's lips straightened themselves for a moment. Then she turned her face towards the young man, with the look of mingled dignity and candour which had already impressed him so deeply, and said, gently—

"Is there anything to be surprised at in that?"

"Yes," said Stretton, hanging his head, and absently pulling forward a long spray of clematis which grew beside him. "It is a very surprising thing to me that Mr. Heron should take me on trust—a man without recommendation, or influence, or friends." He plucked the spray as he spoke, and played restlessly with the leaves. Elizabeth watched his fingers; she saw that the movement was intended to disguise the fact that they were trembling. "As it is," he went on, "even though your father—I beg pardon, your uncle—admits me to this house, I doubt whether I do well to come. I think it would be better in many ways that I should decline this situation."

He let the leaves fall from his hand and rose to his feet. "Will you tell Mr. Heron what I say?" he asked, in an agitated voice. "Tell him I will not take advantage of his kindness. I will go on to Naples—this afternoon."

Elizabeth was puzzled. This was a specimen of humanity the like of which she had never met before. It interested her; though she hardly wished to interfere in the affairs of a man who was so much of a riddle to her. That he was a stranger and that he was young—not much older than herself, very probably—were facts that did not enter her mind with any deterrent force.

But as Stretton lifted his hat and turned to leave her, she noticed how white and wan he looked.

"Mr. Stretton," she said, imperiously, "please to sit down. You are not to attempt that long, hot walk again just now. Besides, you must wait to see my uncle. Sit down, please. Now, tell me, you have been ill lately, have you not?"

"Yes," said Stretton, seating himself as she bade him, and answering meekly. "I had brain fever more than a year ago at the monastery of San Stefano, and my recovery was a slow one."

"I know the Prior of San Stefano—Padre Cristoforo. Do you remember him?"

"Yes. He was very good to me. I was there for twelve months or more. He gave me work to do in the school."

"Will you mention that to my uncle? He is very fond of Padre Cristoforo."

"I thought," said Stretton, colouring a little, and almost as though he were excusing himself, "that it would be useless to give the name of a Romanist Prior as a referee to Mr. Heron. Most people would think it an objection in itself?"

"Why not give English names, then?" said Elizabeth.

"Because I have no English friends."

There was a little silence. Stretton was leaning back in his seat, looking quietly out to sea; Elizabeth was sitting erect, with her hands crossed on her lap. Presently she spoke, but without turning her head.

"Mr. Stretton, I do not want you to think my remarks impertinent or uncalled for. I must tell you first that I am in a somewhat unusual position. My aunt is an invalid, and does not like to be troubled about the children; my uncle hates to decide anything for himself. They have fallen into the habit—the unlucky habit for me—of referring many practical matters to my decision, and, therefore, you will understand that my uncle came to me on his return from the inn this morning and told me what you had said. I want to explain all this, so that you may see how it is that I have heard it so quickly. No one else knows."

"You are very good," said Stretton, feeling his whole heart strengthened and warmed by this frank explanation. "I think you must see how great a drawback my absence of recommendations is likely to be to me."

"Yes," said Elizabeth, seriously, "I do. But if you cannot overcome it in this case, how are you going to overcome it at all?"

"I don't know, Miss Heron."

"You said that you wished to take pupils," Elizabeth went on, too much interested in the subject to notice the mistake made in her name; "you told my uncle so, I believe. Will you get them more easily in England than here?"

"I shall no doubt find somebody who will forego the advantages of a 'character' for the sake of a little scholarship," said Stretton, rather bitterly. "Some schoolmaster, who wants his drudgery done cheap."

"Drudgery, indeed!" said Elizabeth, softly. Then, after a pause—"That seems a great pity. And you are an Oxford man, too!"

Stretton looked up, "How do you know that?" he said, almost sharply.

"You talked of Balliol last night as if you knew it."

"You have a good memory, Miss Heron. Yes, I was at Balliol; but you will not identify me there. The truth will out, you see; I was not at Oxford under my present name."

He thought he should read a look of shocked surprise upon her face; but he was mistaken. She seemed merely to be studying him with grave, womanly watchfulness; not to be easily biassed, nor lightly turned aside.

"That is your own affair, of course," she said. "You have a right to change your name if you choose. In your own name, I dare say you would have plenty of friends."

"I had," he answered, gravely, but not, as she noticed, as if he were ashamed of having lost them.

"And you have none now?"

"Absolutely none."

"Through your own fault?" She wondered afterwards how she had the courage to ask the question; but, at the moment, it came naturally to her lips, and he answered it as simply as it was asked.

"No. Through my misfortune. Pray ask me nothing more."

"I beg your pardon," she said. "I ought not to have asked anything. But I was anxious—for the children's sakes—and there was nobody to speak but myself. I will say nothing more."

"I shall beg of you," said Stretton, trying to speak in as even a tone as hers, although the muscles round his lips quivered once or twice and made utterance somewhat difficult, "I shall beg of you to tell what I have said to Mr. Heron only; you and he will perhaps kindly guard my secret. I wish I could be more frank; but it is impossible. I trust that, when I find employment, my employers will be as kind, as generous, as you have been to-day. You will tell your uncle?"

"What am I to tell him?" she said, turning her eyes upon him with a kindly smile in their serene depths. "That you will be here to-morrow at nine o'clock—or eight, before the day grows hot? Eight will be best, because the boys get so terribly sleepy and cross, you know, in the middle of the day; and you will be able to breakfast here at half-past ten as we do."

He looked at her, scarcely believing the testimony of his own ears. She saw his doubt, and continued quietly enough, though still with that lurking smile in her sweet eyes. "You must not find fault with them if they are badly grounded; or rather you must find fault with me, for I have taught them nearly everything they know. They are good boys, if they are a little unruly now and then. Here is my uncle coming from the house. You had really better wait and see him, will you not, Mr. Stretton? I will leave you to talk business together."

She rose and moved away. Stretton stood like a statue, passionately desiring to speak, yet scarcely knowing what to say. It was only when she gave him a slight, parting smile over her shoulder that he found his voice.

"I can't thank you," he said, hoarsely. She paused for a moment, and he spoke again, with long gaps between the sentences. "You don't know what you have done for me.... I have something to live for now.... God bless you."

He turned abruptly towards the sea, and Elizabeth, after hesitating for a moment, went silently to meet her uncle. She was more touched than she liked to acknowledge to herself by the young man's emotion; and she felt all the pleasurable glow that usually accompanies the doing of a good deed.

"Perhaps we have saved him from great misery—poverty and starvation," she mused to herself. "I am sure that he is good; he has such a fine face, and he speaks so frankly about his troubles. Of course, as my uncle says, he may be an adventurer; but I do not think he is. We shall soon be able to judge of his character."

"Well, Betty," said Mr. Heron, as he came up to her, "what success? Have you dismissed the young man in disgrace, or are we to let him try to instruct these noisy lads every morning?"

"I think you had better try him, uncle."

"My dear Elizabeth, it is not for me to decide the question. You know very well that I could not do what you insist upon doing for us all——"

"Don't tell Mr. Stretton that, please, uncle."

Mr. Heron stopped short, and looked at her almost piteously.

"Dear child, how can I go on pretending to be the master of this house, and hiring tutors for my children, when the expense comes out of your purse and not out of mine?"

"My purse is wide enough," said Elizabeth, laughing. "Dear uncle, I should hate this money if I might not use it in the way I please. What good would it be to me if you could not all share it? Besides, I do not want to be gossiped about and stared at, as is the lot of most young women who happen to be heiresses. I am your orphan niece—that is all that the outside world need know. What does it matter which of us really owns the money?"

"There are very few people of your opinion, my dear," said her uncle. "But you are a good, kind, generous girl, and we are more grateful to you than we can say. And now, shall I talk to this young man? Have you asked him any questions?"

"Yes. I do not think that we need reject him because he has no references, uncle."

"Very well, Elizabeth. I quite agree with you. But, on the whole, we won't mention the fact of his having no references to the rest of the family."

"Just what I was about to say, Uncle Alfred."

Thereupon she betook herself to the house, and Mr. Heron proceeded to the bench on the cliff, where he held a long and apparently satisfactory colloquy with his visitor. And at the end of the conversation it was decided that Mr. John Stretton, as he called himself, should give three or four hours daily of his valuable time to the instruction of the more youthful members of the Heron family.