"Good God-if you'd listened to me!" he cried, venting his helplessness in a burst of anger.

She still held him off with the gentle mockery of her smile. "But haven't I?" she rejoined. "You advised me to leave

the yacht, and I'm leaving it."

He saw then, with a pang of self-reproach, that she meant neither to explain nor to defend herself; that by his miserable silence he had forfeited all chance of helping her, and that the decisive hour was past.

She had risen, and stood before him in a kind of clouded majesty, like some deposed princess moving tranquilly to exile.

“Lily!” he exclaimed, with a note of despairing appeal; but—“Oh, not now," she gently admonished him; and then, in all the sweetness of her recovered composure: "Since I must find shelter somewhere, and since you're so kindly here to help me

He gathered himself up at the challenge. "You will do as I tell you? There's but one thing, then; you must go straight to your cousins, the Stepneys."

“Oh—” broke from her with a movement of instinctive resistance; but he insisted: "Come-it's late, and you must appear to have gone there directly."

He had drawn her hand into his arm, but she held him back with a last gesture of protest. "I can't-I can't-not thatyou don't know Gwen: you mustn't ask me!"

"I must ask you-you must obey me," he persisted, though infected at heart by her own fear.

Her voice sank to a whisper: "And if she refuses?"-but, "Oh, trust me―trust me!' he could only insist in return; and yielding to his touch, she let him lead her back in silence to the edge of the square.

In the cab they continued to remain silent through the brief drive which carried them to the illuminated portals of the Stepneys' hotel. He left her outside, in the darkness of the raised hood, while his name. was sent up to Stepney, and he paced the showy hall, awaiting the latter's descent. Ten minutes later the two men passed out together between the gold-laced custodians of the threshold; but in the vestibule Stepney drew up with a last flare of reluctance.

"It's understood, then?" he stipulated nervously, with his hand on Selden's arm. "She leaves tomorrow by the early train— and my wife's asleep, and can't be disturbed."

"I

I

Tis the will of the Madonna!" groaned Francesco, sitting bent and melancholy on the box of No. 45. Masaccio, with his head in a bag, munched his breakfast and did not listen. It was literally impossible for him to see beyond his present need. The midsummer morning was hot, and, at nine o'clock, the shadow of the wall was growing narrow. Masaccio's bag and ears and neck were already in the sun, yet it would not do to abandon the post which commanded the entrance to the one inn of the town, for Francesco knew that the two foreign ladies whom he had unsuccessfully pursued all the afternoon of the day before had not yet come out at the door. In the hope of their appearance he had neglected to meet the nine o'clock train.

Masaccio finished his breakfast; the nine o'clock train whistled far away, and Francesco still drooped on his box. Things

were going from bad to worse. In the spring, a month of good fortune had inspired him with the idea of buying Masaccio from the padrone. As soon as he should be himself padrone, he had thought gayly, he and Masaccio could earn a good living, and before Christmas-well before Christmas

he would marry Concetta in the church of San Bartolommeo. This morning he wondered how he had dreamed that dream. Day after day it had faded before him, and only last Sunday he had sworn to Concetta that unless he saved twenty lire before the week ended he would give up the struggle and go to America. He could sell his interest with the padrone to Antonio of No. 107 for the price of a third-class ticket to

him with steady eyes that Sunday afternoon under the olive trees in the farm garden, declaring almost fiercely: "If you go, Checco mio, I shall go also." Concetta

dama?" he cried, for there, close beside him, was the Inglese in the gray gown. She had come out from the door and crossed the piazza while he was dreaming of Concetta.

could never go, he thought, because of the old grandmother, yet the memory of her words comforted him.

Francesco started. He was upright in a second, flourishing his whip. "Vuole Ma

A bargain for the drive to Montecorbo was quickly concluded, and, as the carriages from the station came rattling up, all empty, the Inglese, half deafened by the cries of "Vuole Madama? Vuole Madama?" gladly seated herself in No. 45, which drove proudly to the inn door to receive the fair lady in blue.

As they clattered along the narrow streets Francesco gave thanks to the Madonna, who had blessed him with luck at last. Before his eyes danced the eighteen lire of his bargain, in a radiant if vague halo of a good mancia, for these were kindly strangers, it appeared. Deeper than this simple joy of receiving lay the delight of a little secret that promised two or three lire more if the Madonna continued favorable. His present passengers were, he saw, old travellers, yet they had forgotten to stipulate that the drive should in

clude San Fortunato, which lies beyond the farther gate of Montecorbo. Francesco was too sage to speak of it, but waited his time, and meanwhile performed the duties of coachman and guide in his most engaging manner.

understood, and he laughed aloud in pure delight.

"We are betrothed," he said simply. "The signora sees that she is beautiful." As they left the plain and climbed the steep mountain road where a good coachman walks to spare his horse, Francesco, with his hand on the carriage beside the blonde lady, confided to these strangers the whole story of his hopes and his disappointments, and of the love between him and little Concetta.

Yet he did not forget to give his patrons "good service," and he easily won his coveted three lire for San Fortunato. As they returned toward the city, when the blue, summer distance of the far-reaching valley was like that in Perugino's "Adoration" left behind them in the church on the hilltop, it was, in fact, the astute Francesco