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property has been in his own family from time immemorial, and that no such man ever lived and died there as Maestro Ambrogio.

He was a bachelor, of course, and had come to that time of life when a man is neither young nor old, and when a few additional years work little change in him. His figure was slender and wellproportioned; but his shoulders had the scholar's stoop, his thin face the hungry look of an ascetic; the bright blue eyes in it seemed younger than the rest of him; for, contrary to all custom of the day, he went unshorn and unshaven, and his brown hair, streaked with gray, mingled with the untrimmed beard that swept over his breast, muffling him like a disguise. He wore habitually the Florentine lucco, or long robe of black serge, familiar to the world through Dante's portraits; and, with this, the hood-like civic bonnet of the same material. These garments, in spite of his absorbing pursuits, were always of the most scrupulous neatness; while his hands were marvellously white and slender, fine, delicate, like the hands of a noble. But the man's nobility of nature found its best expression in his voice, which was low and clear, never querulous, never raised in anger, of surpassing gentleness and patience in all its tones; so that he who heard it for the first time stood spell-bound in respectful silence, as though the speech were half divine, and its simple phrases the utterance of an oracle.

Few, however, beyond the narrow limits of his household, ever heard the voice of Maestro Ambrogio. His one servant, an old peasant woman from the mountains of the Mugello, stood between him and all the cares and worries of the outer world. Monna Modesta was well known in the quarter. It was she who went to market for him, who knew the worth of a plump fowl, and was ready to pay just that and no more; above all, who kept her master's house in the wonderful and incredible state of cleanliness, noted in chronicles of the time. But only the house; she was never allowed to pass beyond the garden, to profane the dust of the laboratory with her vulgar hands. This, to one of her instincts, was a positive and constant

grief. With tears in her eyes she bade the saints witness that her master's good was all she had at heart, and that dust was the insidious foe of all mankind. Yet Maestro Ambrogio remained a very pig for obstinacy, as she declared. The laboratory and its contents were never to be touched; he, and his young pupil, the noble signor Gentile Morelli alone could enter it; even its small windows, high above her head, must not be scoured. This last command was hardly to be borne, and for a time she persistently disobeyed it; climbing the trellis in her master's absence, removing dead leaves from the sills, polishing the leaded panes; and since she could not open them, peering within, defiantly, upon a group of broken jars stored away on a neglected shelf and half buried in cobwebs, through which the wicked old spiders eyed her with indifference. Beyond these evidences of pestilential disorder she saw dimly, in the feeble glow of the furnace, a confusion of utensils whose very names were unknown to her. And one day, when there was more light than usual, she also discerned the outlines of a splendid alabaster chest, of great size and carved in high relief, but sadly stained and blackened. In her simple ignorance she took this for a linen-coffer, and longed to have it removed and cleansed and restored to its proper uses under her careful supervision. The good soul little dreamed that this sculptured wonder had been designed merely to hold what she most despised-namely, dust. For it was an Etruscan sarcophagus, found long ago by her master in his mountain vineyard near Gubbio; and by him brought down to Florence with reverent care, for the sake of its principal figure-a young girl, recumbent in the marble, but lifelike, as if a touch would rouse her-the portrait, no doubt, of the dead unknown whose ashes Maestro Ambrogio still treasured, undisturbed.

Monna Modesta, wise in her small way, applied to herself that proverb of her nation, which prizes the ounce of discretion above the pound of knowledge. As a matter of course, she gave her master no cause to suspect that she had climbed the trellis to look upon these things, prudently resolving to pry

into them no more. But she continued to sound the praises of order and her own devotion to it, on all possible occasions; with righteous thanks that she was not as others were, uplifting her standard at the gate of the enemy's citadel, to wage fierce warfare upon the insects of the garden, where not so much as a leaf was permitted to fall unnoted: while the student, Gentile, having daily access to the precincts from which she was so rigorously excluded, daily grew in her disfavor. She looked upon him as a poor, misguided creature, aiding and abetting her master in practices that were, to say the least, unwholesome, and that did no good to anybody, so far as honest folk could see.

Toward the close of a lovely day when the long Italian summer was nearly gone, Monna Modesta sat spinning and considering deeply many things. She had moved her wheel into a sunny corner of the garden, and the grateful warmth reminded her that winter was not far off, and that winter, at her age, was to be dreaded. She must go to market in the morning and get the better of old Niccolò, who was a rascal at heart and would cheat her if he could. The thought caused her wheel to rattle angrily. The world's prevailing wickedness made duty doubly hard; the wicked seemed to thrive and flourish, while, for the good, life was a long contention, with palsy at the end. The breeze shook down some dead leaves from the rose trained above her head. Yes, autumn had already come; and what would befall her master if the winter should be her last? He could never take care of himself, he must inevitably become the prey of thieves. She sighed, and the wheel stopped turning; the dry leaves rustled under foot, but she did not stoop for them.

A key grated in the lock of the laboratory door. The sound passed unheeded, and her master's presence was first made known to her by his shadow on the garden-path. The wheel resumed its work, but quite unconsciously she sighed again.

"Why do you sigh, my good Modesta?" asked Maestro Ambrogio.

"The winter is at hand, my master. I feel its breath already, and I am old."

"Madre mia, with such nimble fingers!" returned the doctor, as he watched the whirring wheel. "There is no winter in your blood." "Eh, signor, the candle burns low; a puff will put it out. And who then will look after you? Not the miserable Gentile, that insect, who knows less of the world's ways than would fill a snail-shell. The house that has no woman in it is a ruined house, signor. You must marry, that I may die content."

"Death will come," said the doctor, gravely; "but yesterday you did not fear it. And it is only one day nearer, now. You talk of winter, too, before its time. See, above your head, there is a

rose.

"The last," she answered; "to pick that would bring ill luck upon the house. Master, do not touch it, I pray you."

But the rose was already plucked, and, as the doctor held it out to her, its petals fell apart in the hollow of his hand. To Monna Modesta this was the worst of omens, and as if to confirm her superstitious fancy, a violent gust of the autumn breeze shook every twig in the garden, and raised a cloud of dust about their feet. The small whirlwind passed them by in a moment; but she had spoken truly; there was winter in its breath.

"Keep the rose, signor," she said, reproachfully; "for death has overtaken it. Is not this a warning? Make haste to choose your wife, and choose her well, Maestro Ambrogio."

The doctor smiled, and pointed at the door of his laboratory.

"My wife is there," said he, lightly. "She is wise and gentle and forgiving, with no complaints and no harsh words. She is always young, always beautiful; after all these years, would you have me turn against her now, and prove unfaithful?"

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and a tender chicken? Can she mind the spit, or sew new hooks upon the robe you wear? Can she make me young again, or even persuade me that I am not growing old? Science! Bah! Can she turn winter into spring, or bring the dead to life?"

"Or bring the dead to life?" The doctor had gone laughing to his work again. But these words made him start; they rang in his ears after the door had closed upon them. He stood grave and silent, far removed in thought from the musty disorder of his workshop, until a sweet perfume, strangely out of place there, recalled him to himself; it came only from the fading flower, rudely crushed and broken in his hand.

"The last rose," he said, gathering up carefully some of its outer petals that had fallen to the floor. "Will it bring ill luck upon the house? We shall see -we shall see!"

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That night Monna Modesta summoned him in vain to supper. She laid the cloth, and sitting down beside it watched and waited-then nodded and dozed over it alone. She woke at a late hour, to find the food still there, untasted. A light shone in the laboratory; and stealing out into the dark, she climbed the trellis cautiously to the little window and looked down. There sat the doctor before a small brazier filled with glowing embers, turning the leaves of a parchment book in old black-letter. stopped, and sighed; then, to her astonishment, he flung the fragments of a rose her rose- -into the heart of the hot coals; and fell to reading again in the great book. A cannon-shot would hardly have aroused him from his studies. But she crept back as quietly as she came, in speechless wonder; went to her bed, slept and dreamed, still wondering. In the morning, the table stood precisely as she had left it, her master's bed was empty; and her honest wrath broke forth upon the head of the student, Gentile, who came at his accustomed hour. He was a handsome youth, wearing a cloak of violet silk jauntily draped over his velvet doublet. A lute was slung across his shoulder. The very ease and trimness of him carried Monna Modesta's anger beyond the bounds of reason.

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"Here are fine doings, truly! cried. "Maestro Ambrogio has had neither food nor sleep this night. Why was not your splendid laziness here to help him?" And never listening for his answer, she went on:

"Go out, and fetch him in to breakfast. I pray our gracious lady that he be not starved already. If you find him dead, lay it at your own door-popinjay!"

Maestro Ambrogio looked pale and worn, but, somewhat to her regret, he was not dying of starvation. She pointed at the table with an injured air.

"It is true," he said, "I have an appetite. But, as you see, my night's work was not unprofitable." And before seating himself he handed her a rose.

She knew that none were left in the garden, yet she turned instinctively to the window; for the flower was but half open, and seemed to have the morning freshness in it.

He shook his head, and smiled.

"No," he said, "I did not find it there. To please you, I have restored the dead to life. That is all."

He was above any wilful deception, before all human creatures to be trusted; but now she doubted him, even while she could not help observing that, in size and color, this was the perfect counterpart of the rose so lately reduced to ashes under her too curious eyes.

"Well," he continued, "you will never say sharp things, any more, about my gentle mistress. Come! Confess that her work has been complete and wonderful."

"Wonderful!" repeated Monna Modesta, pressing the rose to her lips, that she might conceal her doubts behind it. Then she found it dry and scentless, and she believed him.

But the increased respect with which she now regarded her master had a touch of pity in it, a new tenderness unfelt before. It was plain that he failed to perceive the fatal imperfection of his handiwork; his air of triumph betrayed conclusively an absolute faith in his own skill. And the old servant could not find the heart to undeceive

him, but left his mind clouded with this last illusion, as if she had been dealing with a child. After all, the rose with out its perfume was a sufficient marvel; she put it away in water, crossing herself, involuntarily, as she did so. While it lived, her wholesome awe of it continued; she would not even touch the unholy thing again, but when it had faded for the second time, seizing the dried stalk with a pair of tongs, at arm's length, she flung it into the fire; then raked apart the ashes. They should not kindle into another life through any fault of hers.

Winter came, and with it the first symptoms of the infirmity she feared. Her voice shook in an annoying way, her step grew heavier, her wrinkles deepened; she compared herself to an old witch, when she looked in the glass. Her lightest household care became a burden, even grumbling was an effort. But she toiled and scolded and drove her bargains with unflagging spirit, praying only that death might find her still in the pious fury of her work. She was ready; let this hour be her last; she wanted no interval of deplorable rest, no sickly folding of the hands. Her master's future gave her more concern than ever. He had drawn very near, he told her, to that greatest of discoveries, which had baffled him so long. But no further hint of his revealed anything of its scope or even of its nature. Vainly, she took the young student into favor, plying him with wine, artfully leading him on to gossip indiscreetly about Maestro Ambrogio's affairs; and gaining only a reluctant admission that Gentile was quite ignorant of the possible result to which their labors tended. He performed his share of them adroitly, by his own showing; and slept soundly each night when they were over. But at his return, he often found that the last day's work had been undone. For day and night his master seemed to toil incessantly, suffering repeated discouragements, but through them all upheld and strengthened by some wild hope that he would not explain.

One morning, Gentile presented himself only to be sent away again. All that day, Maestro Ambrogio did no work and spoke no word. Monna Mo

desta came and went, but he never heeded her, until she made a direct attack upon him with intrusive questions, when he shook his head mournfully. His eyes glistened; a tear trickled down upon his beard; she was sure, then, that his experiments had failed.

"Heaven help us all!" she thought; and clattering off to the neighboring church, she said her prayers in one of its chapels.

She heard him stirring in the night; he left his room, his step died away upon the stairs. She followed, but not softly enough, for at the garden door, in the dark, she found him waiting. She felt his hand upon her wrist, and drew back, alarmed. But his reproof was of the gentlest.

"Why do you get up so early? One watcher is enough to guard my house. Go to your bed, and sleep; it is the best service you can do me.

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And she obeyed him, silently.

The next day, Maestro Ambrogio recalled his student. The old hope had revived, informing new schemes, inducing new tests. And as time passed, as his problem advanced favorably toward its mysterious solution, the confidence daily growing stronger within him shone through his eyes and gave his face the radiance of youth. He was like the fortunate lover, who believes that some divinity has alighted upon the earth to walk hand in hand with him forever.

At length, when Monna Modesta imagined that the hour of triumph must be very near, her master, who so rarely stirred abroad, suddenly bade her prepare him for a long journey. In answer to her startled look, he told her that all was well with him; that he had only one venture left to make; but that he dared not run the extreme risk it involved, without first consulting the one living man whose judgment could be called infallible. This was a famous Venetian doctor, almost a century old, unimpaired in mind, but far too feeble in body to endure the fatigue of travel, which, therefore, he himself must undertake. He charged her solemnly to admit no one, not even Gentile, to the house during his absence. The laboratory door he locked and sealed, leaving all behind him, apparently, except a scroll of parch

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"A wife, from Venice?" said the doctor, laughing. "Well, who knows? I have done stranger things. But, remember, I make no promises. God be with you, Modesta!"

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And with you, signor! A swift journey, Maestro Ambrogio!"

So he rode away. For many days there was no sign of him, and she was faithful to her trust. When Gentile demanded news, he found the house barricaded as if for a siege, and was forced to hold indignant parley with Modesta through a wicket in the outer door. She bade him sing to his lute, and not to her. The great Leonardo knocked once, faring little better.

"What! Hast thou yet heard nothing of thy master?"

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Alas, no, signor." "Misericordia! Pray Heaven that some sly one of thy sex may not have beguiled him!"

"Pray Heaven that he be no more a bachelor, and good day to you, Messer Leonardo !"

At last, however, the door swung open for the master's much-desired return. He came, dressed in gay colors, with a light step and smiling face; followed by two serving-men bearing rich apparel, ribbons, silks and laces, to be unfolded and displayed before Modesta's wondering eyes. She tried to speak, but wanted words.

"What! No welcome for me?" he cried, merrily. "Yet all is as you wished it. I come in my wedding garments; are they not well chosen?"

"Heaven be praised for all its mercies! You have grown young again. But the bride, signor?"

"She will follow. Prepare a chamber for her and for these things."

"Eh, the waste of money! Look at

that brocade! What great lady have you married? These trappings are for a princess; how is it that your wife will wear them?"

"They are not fine enough. Wait, and you will see."

She set the house in order with much nervous apprehension. How should she make room for these new fineries? There was no chest fit to hold them, except, perhaps, the splendid marble one hidden away in her master's workshop; but she dared not ask him for that. Well, it mattered little; no doubt the new mistress would bring a retinue of servants to undo any humble work of hers; they would overrule her-she would count for nothing; that, of course, was the fate of age, and she must accept it cheerfully; she must bid them all good-night, and let the past to which she belonged enshroud her in its friendly shadows. All would be for the best that promised a long and happy future to Maestro Ambrogio.

Thus Modesta dealt with her misgivings. But the new mistress did not come. Again the doctor buried himself in the laboratory, and pursued his dreary studies. To all inquiries about his wife he replied that she was still to be expected; but he fixed no day, no hour. Then, fearing that the great lady might take them by surprise in the night, she slept with a lighted lamp near her bedside, to wake continually, and strain her ears at the faintest sound. But her master discovered this, and rebuked her almost sternly for excess of zeal. So she resumed her former habits, asked no more questions, left events to wait upon themselves, the stars to rise and set as they would, unnoted; till the winter had worn away.

The doctor's cellar contained a few bottles of old wine, lying there in wait for rare occasions. One evening of the early spring-time, he brought out from this dusty ambush a small flask, and, uncorking it with deliberation, he called for glasses. All that day he had been in a state of feverish disturbance, and his hand shook now. The golden liquor leaped and sparkled in a most inviting way, and Monna Modesta, yielding readily to temptation, took the glass he offered; likewise a second, which he pressed

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