Miss Macintosh had said the house was comfortable, and shivered as she said it. Judith, too, shivered a little and she saw that Bob's face was serious. The sense of expectancy which had buoyed her up ever since they had entered the gate, suddenly died away, leaving her curiously still. Miss Macintosh, Judith realized then, had fixed her eyes upon her in a gaze that seemed at once severe and pleading. For a long moment they stood thus, then the older woman turned abruptly away to look again over the river to the lifting hills.

"We think it a very pretty view," she said briskly, as though deliberately trying to be business-like and enthusiastic.

"Poor thing," thought Judith. "She loves the place and they have to sell it. Of course that's it. No wonder she is depressed. She thinks we've come to buy it."

"Now," said Miss Macintosh, "if you would care to see inside?"

"Why do I keep arguing with myself like this?" thought Judith. But she knew. Somewhere in the back of her mind was a dark little depression. She would not admit it. She was enjoying herself tremendously. She was. She was. It was absurd to keep questioning like this and to think hedges were clutching at her, that painted huntsmen were disturbing and kind-faced old women ominous. But, just the same-she stole a look at Bob. He was no longer serious, only interested and that reassured her.

"Kate," said Miss Macintosh to the old woman, "where is Miss Janet?"

The maid did not answer, but her eyes, with a curious expression of anxiety and alarm, slid for a fleet instant to Bob and Judith; then she made a little half-gesture down the long hall.

"She's frightened about something," thought Judith.

"Is she in the small room?" asked Miss Macintosh, quickly. The maid nodded.

Miss Macintosh still held the trowel in one hand; now she tightened her grip on it.

"Knock, Kate," she said. "Tell her please to come out."

The maid walked swiftly away and Miss Macintosh stood still watching her, her hand still tight upon the trowel.

There was a moment's silence. "We're waiting for something," thought Judith. "That woman is expecting something to happen.”

Kate stopped at a door that opened on the hall and knocked gently and persistently. "Miss Janet," she said, "may I come in?"

The door opened, she stepped inside, there was a murmur of voices and Miss Macintosh let the trowel dangle at her side in a loose grip again.

"Kate is Scotch," she said, in the hurried tone that one uses to cover up an awkward silence. "All the other servants are Italian, of course, but Kate has been with us always."

"Yes," murmured Judith, "I was sure she must be." There was not any particular reason to answer Miss Macintosh, but Judith was glad of the chance to use her voice.

"Does she get on with the Italians?" asked Bob politely. So he wanted to use his voice, too!

"Oh yes, quite well."

The door opened again and a small woman with a little face settled in an expression of perpetual anxiety came toward them. She was smiling, eagerly smiling, but she looked disturbed for all that.

"My sister," said Miss Macintosh. “Mr. and Mrs. Blair, Janet, who have come to look at the house."

"It's a nice house," said Miss Janet. "Such a nice house, really, so sunny and bright. And the garden is lovely. Some people don't like these painted villas, but it's quite in keeping with the setting, I always think."

Bob looked at Judith, their eyes met, a mutual agreement was established.

"Would you consider letting it?" he asked.

Miss Janet looked at him, her smile fading, as though she might cry; but Miss Macintosh said abruptly, "Oh no," and then, "no, indeed-but if you're interested in

buying this, of course, is the big hall."

It was a fine hall upheld by stone arches and beautifully appointed. There was a tapestry on one side, an old painted chest on another, while dark pictures and tall wrought-iron lamps broke the severity of outline and color. Miss Macintosh brushed her fingers across the polished smoothness of an old refectory table in a gesture that was a caress. "She loves every stick of it," thought Judith, "and indeed it is very lovely."

She had brightened, she looked again, Judith realized, like the brown lady who had popped out of the flower-bed. Judith was glad. It had been so strange to see this brisk controlled woman, whose face was marked by gentle self-discipline, whose eyes were honest and fearless, look strained and afraid. Judith, too, brushed her fingers against the table. If it was a talisman-she glanced back as she followed Miss Macintosh across the hall and saw that Bob, too, touched the table, and she grinned a little. But now she could enjoy this adventure again.

"This is our little sitting-room," said Miss Macintosh, throwing open a door. "It's very warm and cozy, the other rooms are bigger." Indeed it was a charming small room hung with chintz and bright with roses.

"It is really very comfortable and warm," murmured Miss Janet at her elbow.

"This is the drawing-room," said Miss Macintosh, opening the door of a big, painted room with long French doors on a level with the garden, bright with an ordered and delicate formality.

"It's lovely," murmured Judith.

"Oh, the beautiful things!" There was no chintz here but brocade on spindling walnut chairs, a yellow marble mantel, cabinets of old china, a gleaming floor, pictures; almost too much, but all possessed of such dignity that there was no resulting sense of crowding. Judith and Bob in a simultaneous impulse wandered to the windows where the clipped box paths led one's eyes to the river. In front of them, down a dwindling, formal perspective, was a little building that they had not seen before. The angular cross that stood above it marked it as a sacred spot and its door stood open, making it seem as if the plants massed at the entrance were about to step inside and worship.

"What is that?" asked Bob.

"The chapel," answered Miss Macintosh. "It was built there by an old cardinal who once owned the place, and I imagine he had need of it, by all accounts. We keep it open because the servants like it. A priest comes about once a month to say mass and a number of the country people use it then."

It was alive, then, not just a picturesque affectation; and Judith liked the idea of the chants and the incense rising from the fresh green, and the country people worshiping there.

"I want this house," she said softly.

"So do I," Bob answered.

She caught his hand in a quick grip. It was divine to love Bob and have him want the things that she wanted.

20

The sisters had drawn together by the mantel and were watching

them. Quietly, motionlessly, they stood; and when the two young people turned again to the room the grave regard of Miss Macintosh was full on them, but Miss Janet turned her little puckered face quickly as though she were afraid for them to see her eyes.

There was a moment's pause.

"It's all queer again," thought Judith ruefully. "Why are they so silent? Why do they keep looking at us so? We aren't going to steal their house!" But she knew that was not it. The sisters were frightened of something and they were so honest that to save themselves they could not help warning them. They had locked their tongues; they wanted to sell their house. But their eyes

"There is another room," said Miss Macintosh gravely. "It is there." She pointed to a blind door that was painted to match the walls and was invisible at a first glance. "We never use it. But it is one way to reach the dining-room and perhaps you would like to see it." She took a key from her pocket and unlocked the door and threw it open, but she did not enter; in fact she stepped farther back into the drawing-room making no effort to usher them in as she had into the other parts of the house.

It was a small room and almost empty. In it was a table and a bookcase only half-filled with shabby volumes and two small chairs drawn up before a fireplace in which no fire was laid. It was a room which obviously was never used, in which furniture had been set merely because an absolutely empty place made barren the entrance to the big dining-room.

Two weeks later, one sunny May morning, Bob and Judith drove out along the dingy road to take posses sion of the Villa della Filomela-the "Villa of the Nightingale." It had taken two weeks of intricate negotiation before they could call it theirs; now, in Bob's pocket lay police permission and the deeds and a cable from his mother giving her blessing on her children's first home.

Behind them sat Marco, their new butler, his broad, delighted face and rotund form lost in a bouncing mass of the Blair's new possessions. He clutched in his arms a gaunt, wooden Madonna and wore, like a cape, a stiff piece of gold brocade. A painted coffee-table hit him smartly on the shins at every jolt and though wincing perceptibly at this, he regained his grin at once. He was as delighted as the Blairs to be driving home that morning.

A truck full of their new and precious belongings was drawn up in the court of the Villa, with all the old Macintosh servants whom the Blairs had adopted or who had adopted the Blairs-a question never to be decided-crowded about it, voluble with exclamation, animated with gesture, but making no move to unpack the load.

"Good Lord!" said Bob. "They haven't even started. What in the world do they think they are there for anyhow?"

"They have the good heart, signore," explained Marco. "They wait for you."

"I'm glad they have," said Judith. "I want to put the first piece in my own house myself."

She jumped down and stood smiling at the crowd, just for a second

savoring the sunshine and the excitement before she plunged into hard work. There were beds to be put up, tables distributed, carpets laid, pictures hung. They had not very much as yet, barely enough to live with; nevertheless there was a long day ahead of them before dinner could be served on the new refectory table or they could seek rest in the Venetian bed now poised airily on the top of the truck. Judith looked rather ruefully at the bed.

"Well," she said, "we've got a place to sleep and a chair apiece and a table and a knife and fork. I guess we'll manage." Leaning forward she took the blandly smiling Madonna from Marco's arms. "You go first."

There was no place to put the heavy figure in the hall, the mantel in the sitting-room was not wide enough to hold it, the painted drawing-room held no resting place and the dining-room was surging with excited servants. That left only the shabby haunted chamber whose stone mantel stood wide and empty as though waiting for the benign Lady.

"There," said Judith, with a sigh of relief, "up you go." She backed away to see how her beloved Madonna looked in her new home. She seemed lonely, Judith thought, all by herself in the little empty room. So going to the window she called out to Bob, still busy in the garden: "As soon as you find the chairs bring them in here."

"Where are you?" he called back. "In the haunted room."

Suddenly one of the maids looking up at the sound of her voice saw Judith standing in the window.

"Oh, signora, signora!" she cried.