She clasped her hands and bent eagerly toward him. Her homely country garb, and her earnest, beseeching eyes, touched some hidden memories. The thin lips moved nervously, and a haze dimmed the brightness of his eyes. All his fears were gone; and when at last they led him out, with his arms pinioned, into the open field, with the troops drawn up around him, he begged them not to bandage his eyes. The faces of the six men, chosen by lot from his company, were "God took her other children, but you-you can spare this paler than his when they stood before the young stripling waitone if you will." Her hands dropped into her lap, and her voice ended in sobs. He rose from his chair and paced the room. The sound of children's laughter and the pattering of little feet came through the open window; but one voice that used to be heard among them was silent now, and listen he ever so intently, never would he hear it again. Her only one, and he could spare him if he would! He paused before her at last. "I will grant your request, and send his pardon to the army at once." She stammered out her thanks. He listened with an absent smile, while he waited for his secretary and papers. When they came, he hastily turned over the files, wrote out the pardon himself, but as he did so, and looked at the date, he rang for a carriage and horses, saying, "I fear it may be too late, after all." ing for the signal to fire. His eyes were bright and clear as he looked at them, but a dimness came over theirs, and their hands trembled as they took their muskets. Their comrade! One could never have borne it; but with six muskets-one loaded with blank cartridge-no unhappy soldier could tell who fired the fatal shot. He closed his eyes involuntarily. Was it a minute? Why did they not fire? A shout was heard through all the lines. Dashing into the camp came a carriage drawn by four horses; a white handkerchief was waving from the window. "Pardoned! pardoned!" was shouted by the more distant soldiers. "Pardoned! pardoned!" rolled from lip to lip, until it reached the ear of Seth. He tottered and fell. At first the excited crowd thought he had been shot, though they had seen no flash and heard no report, and the thin, sallow man that looked from the carriage thought that in truth he had come toɔ late. But his comrades ran and raised him. "Pardoned! par When Seth Hathaway leaned against the tree for one brief moment, he dreamed of home. The rustling leaves over his head sounded like the maple leaves by his mother's door, be-doned!" they shouted in his ears, and amid loud huzzas and neath which he thought he was playing with the brothers who general joy he was led back to his tent. had died so long ago. A grasp upon his shoulder roused him. "Who goes there?" cried he, waking at once. "Your colonel, you sleeping scoundrel!" was the reply. Seth knew the voice too well. He had heard the rough tones too often, as he cursed the men for some trivial neglect of duty. On this night the colonel had visited the outposts, and found the sleeping sentinel. How long Seth had slept he never knew, but at the sound of that voice every nerve and fibre was awake. The colonel called to some soldiers who waited at a little distance. "Take away his musket; he can't even keep his eyes open within sight of the Rebs' watch-fires. Put him under arrest, and a court-martial shall teach him what it means to sleep at his post." By the fireside, where a few scanty sticks gave out a flickering blaze, his mother sat and thought of her ill-fated boy, of his pretty baby ways, of his boyish mirth, and his tender manhood. Till now she had not realized how many other mothers, all over the land, felt for sons about to die, who were as dear to them as Seth to her. She thought of Deborah. She had not seen her since the night she had led her home after the horrible news had come. She felt no resentment against her She knew that she could not have kept her boy much longer by her side; the girl's words had but sent him a little sooner, that was all. Her fingers, which had known but few idle moments in her life, still busied themselves with the blue yarn stocking which he would never wear now. But without some employment she wandered restlessly about the house, now. Seth's musket was taken away, and he was soon marching seeing ever the pale cold face, the dead lips that she might not back to the camp between two soldiers. 66 By Jove, Hathaway," whispered one, "it is too bad that a fellow can't nod on such a confoundedly dark night without having to be shot for it. If I had known what the old cuss was about, creeping around so like a cat, I would have made a noise loud enough to have waked you before he touched you." Seth made no reply, neither then nor at the court-martial. He had been taken in the very act, was tried, found guilty, and sentenced to be shot. One of the officers who condemned him was touched at the sight of the delicate boy, who admitted his guilt, but had had no excuse to offer in extenuation. Through his exertions the execution of the sentence was postponed a few days. In the meantime he exerted himself to procure his pardon; but military men and officials turned a deaf ear to his request. The discipline of the army must be maintained, and so grave an offense could not be passed over. When he pleaded the youth of the culprit, the only reply was, "If a man become a soldier, he must perform the duties of one, or pay the penalty of neglect."' Seth, unconscious that anybody was interceding for him, or felt any interest in his fate, hesitated to write to his mother. How could he tell her that the boy of whom she was so proud was to be shot like a dog? and yet he knew that these few last lines were all that he should have to give her now, and with cheeks that crimsoned like a young girl's, he wrote of his disgrace. He knew that she would not love him the less for that; but Deborah-the thought of her was bitter indeed. She would despise him. He felt that keenly. But it would only be for a little while. In a few brief hours all would be over. The face of Death, as he came nearer and nearer to it, bost all terrors and grew ever more gracious and attractive. It became like the face of a friend who would take him by the hand and lead him into an unknown land, where all pain and weariness would be forgotten. One moment and then. Men that died peacefully in their beds suffered more than he would. kiss, between her and every object. The door opened noiselessly, and Deborah entered. She was weary with her journey, but news such as she brought was not to be delayed by any fatigue. She came to the side of Mrs. Hathaway. "Ah, Deborah!" said she, with a start, feeling rather than hearing her, "I thought you would not come again because I said you sent Seth away-away to be shot. Tell me, do you know-is it all over?'' "No," replied Deborah, "it is not over; he is yet "Do you think I could see him once more, if I went now, and traveled day and night, would they just let his old mother say good-by to him? The worst men-thieves and murderers -can see their friends once before-before-" She grasped the girl by the arms, and looked at her with eyes full of wild sorrow. They would not be so cruel as to say no-could they?" "He will not be shot at all, mother," said Deborah, soothingly. "I have been to Washington. The President has pardoned him. I told him he was your only son-your last boy." And she stooped down and kissed the wrinkled cheek of Mrs. Hathaway. woman. "He has not taken what the Lord left me," cried the old "The Lord bless him forever and forever. And, Deborah, for all the things I said to you then—” "Hush, mother; never think of them again, and neither will I.” When Seth Hathaway understood that he was pardoned, no feeling of joy for himself arose in his mind; all his sensibilities were deadened, and he felt like one stunned. He had been too certain of his fate, and made his death too real a thing to turn easily back to life; but when he did, and realized from his mother's letters, so overflowing with joy, what a grief his death would have been to her, his love for Deborah, and his gratitude and veneration for the President, who had made his pardon all the more precious by his manner of bestowing it, taught him that life had yet a charm and a value for him which he thought it had lost forever. He fought through the war: no soldier was braver. The life that had been given to him. he periled in the service of his country. He was with McClellan in the Peninsula, with Grant in his final victories, and returned a colonel in the triumphant army. When the terrible news came that the tender, brave heart, which could not be severe even to his enemies, had ceased to beat, when the souls of all the loyal people were filled with anguish and despair, when men wept in the streets like children whose protector has been taken from them, no grief was deeper and more profound than that of the mother whose son had been spared, of the girl who was waiting for peace to give back the lover his compassion had saved, or of the man who, standing on the brink of death, had been drawn back to life by his mer ciful hand. THE CHURCH OF THE SANTA SPINA, AT PISA. BESIDES its vast and magnificent cathedral, Pisa possesses several remarkable churches, among which that of Santa Maria della Spina merits the attention of every traveler with feeling to appreciate what is really beautiful. The façade of white marble, glowing in the warm rays of an Italian sun, is mirrored in the blue waters of the Arno, on whose banks it stands. Its name alludes to a relic which it prizes, and which it was built to enshrine-a thorn, believed to be from the thorny crown placed on the Savior's head. This relic was brought to Pisa in the thirteenth century, from Palestine, by a rich merchant of the city. chisel of John of Pisa, and the interior of the church is adorned with other sculptures by the same hand, and by Nino of Pisa. It also contains a fine painting attributed to Sodoma. WRECKED ON LUCIPARA. LUCIPARA is a bleak rock between Sourabaya, in Java, and Amboyna. Rarely do vessels approach it. For miles around, the treacherous coral reefs threaten death to ships, and even small boats; and even in a calm, shallow as the water is, the inhospitable rock can scarcely be reached by wading, so sharp and irregular are the rocks. Near this island, in 1837, a Dutch steamer grounded on a reef. All was confusion and dismay, and all would have been ruin, but for the presence of mind of Lieutenant Colonel Stuers, a Dutch officer, proceeding to Amboyna with his family. He secured the liquors, calmed the women passengers, and controlled crew and soldiers. By hard work at night, with boats, and wading, the passengers were all landed, and provisions carried on shore, with such parts of the wreck as would be useful to form a shelter. Then their sufferings began. One boat, sent off for help, was captured by pirates; another forced back by a storm, which swept away the steamer in fragments, and naught was left but an old wreck on the island. At last, however, a boat reached Amboyna, and help came. But, meanwhile, some of the crew sank under the privations, which the ladies-one of them, Madame Stuers, in a very delicate situation-bore up against, doubtless from the fact of their exercising greater judgment and prudence. The only means of burying these poor victims was to tie them to a plank and slide them into the deepest water. The ships brought to their relief by pilot Kash were the Nautilus and Erich, which rescued them on the 11th of June, after Some of the statues that grace its exterior are due to the thirty-seven days' residence on the cheerless island. SWEET SEVENTEEN. Он, dreamy and fair are some pictures Shown faultless from first until last; So gladly remembered when seen, As those that reveal me a maiden, Gay, pretty, and sweet seventeen. How merrily broke the blithe laughter From lips never weary of mirth! How often mamma used to call me The worst little madcap on earth! How daring and odd my opinions, My speeches how saucy and keen! In days when I had not a trouble, Gay, pretty, and sweet seventeen. Ah me, with such shy indecision I met this or that doting swain, Persuading him now I adored him, And now that his presence was pain. No qualm of compassion once stirred me, As haughty and grand as a queen, Convinced that all men were my subjects, Gay, pretty, and sweet seventeen. What novels I secretly fed on, What love-notes I privately penned, What meetings I planned with adorers! Dear, dear, my dark deeds have no end! And yet, in my wildest behavior, No whit of true wrong did I mean, I was but a vixen, a romp and a flirt, Gay, pretty, and sweet seventeen. THE TRAGEDY OF THE STUDIO. CHAPTER I. TEN or twelve years ago, a certain fellow called Antonio Neri, a journeyman shoemaker at Frascati, Italy, was in prison there for stabbing his master. The man he stabbed had recovered, and Antonio's sentence was only a short imprisonment. His approaching release was by no means anticipated as a domestic festa by his family circle, especially by his poor little daughter of sixteen. Her mother had died while her father was in prison; and if her heart did not yearn toward her natural protector, the poor child's short but sharp experience of his parental amenities justified that felial shortcoming. But she was soon to have a harder trial of duty than any that she dreaded. Antonio had become intimate in prison with a fellow-culprit, a bird of the same feather as himself. This ruffian boasted of the lazy ease of the life he had led, and should lead again, once more at liberty, thanks to the earnings of his handsome young wife. She was a favorite model in Rome, and always fully employed by the sculptors and painters there. "She brings me a scudo every day," said the brutal Checco, grinning; and so might your pretty little daughter to you, if you chose." "But," said Antonio, who perhaps had a momentary qualm of conscience, “the girl has been brought up religiously by her mother. She is over modest." tions there. You may be sure that impudent and majestic beauty had no fear of finding a rival in the slender slip of a girl, but, on the contrary, reckoned on enhancing her own popularity by assuming such a guardianship. The poor little thing was desparate with horror. Although innocent as an infant, she had often heard her pious mother speak with scorn of those shameless girls who frequented the Roman studios-creatures who hired out their beautiful forms by the hour to be stared at by those Signori who painted pictures or made marble figures. Nanna hardly comprehended that there were two classes of models, one for nude and another for draped studies. She had but a vague, though intense, dread of the métier that her father thrust upon her, and that he forced her to accept, by threatening the dutiful girl with his curse if she disobeyed him. On a fine September evening two English artists, named Wilton and Sandford, strolled through the great ilex avenues leading out of Frascati toward Monte Dragone. They had been in Villeggiatura for some weeks, and were going back to Rome next morning. They walked as far as the Villa Taverna, one of Prince Borghese's country-houses. Gates, doors, and windows were wide open; they heard the tapping of hammers and the grating of saws; the house seemed undergoing repairs. The Englishmen went in, and up-stairs; unchallenged by two or three workmen whom they met coming down. They walked through several pretty empty rooms, all in confusion; the walls were being freshly painted. They heard the strong, fresh voice of a young man, who was singing in a room or two off; and presently they came on a handsome lad who sat on the ground and sang while he painted the lower part of the wall with pretty arabesques of flowers and birds. He stopped his lusty carol for a few moments while the Signori stood by observing him, but resumed it when they walked away through an open window out upon a stone terrace beyond. While Sandford was intent on the lovely golden glaze of sunset that suffused the fountained garden, Wilton, walking to and fro, happened to look back into the room. Just as he did so, a young girl glided through its doorway, and, coming behind the housepainter, put her hand on his shoulder. He turned his head and started up, joyful surprise brightening all his face. But hers was very sorrowful; tears streamed down it as she fixed her eyes on him, and, holding him by both his hands, poured out a torrent of rapid words. His gay countenance darkened : he flushed, then turned pale, then made a wrathful face, and stamped. And then he spoke in his turn; seemed to implore in vain, for she shook her head despairingly. At last, with a rough and fierce gesture, he pushed her away, seized his jacket, flung it on one shoulder, and hastily left the room. But then the poor girl took her hands from her eyes, which they had covered, and darted after him. Wilton, who had watched this little pantomime with considerable interest, now found himself addressed by a workman, who begged to inform the Signori that the doors and windows were about to be closed for the night; and the two Englishmen walked down-stairs again. On their way back to Frascati they came up with the young couple whom Wilton had observed. Lad and lass walked side by side without speaking, on that thick carpet of dead leaves which muffles all footsteps, in the great avenue whose solemn aisles were then fast darkening. "What a beautiful, bashful face!" cried Sandford, when they "Oh, if you are so squeamish," sneered Checco, with an ugly had passed. "Just the model I want for my big picture. No oath interlarded "Not I," cried Antonio, with an oath even uglier; "but the child is." "Ah, well, if she rules you, not you her," said Checco, contemptuously; and the conversation dropped. chance of finding such a one in Rome." Charles Wilton and William Sandford were together in the Roman studio of the latter. Sandford had just received tidings from England of the failure of his father, who had been a provincial banker. He was a widower, and William was his only "So do I, lots of things. Especially that I could first finish my grand allegorical piece here, and then sell it for two or three hundred pounds. You see, I haven't anticipated this smash, and I have anticipated my allowance; so that I have made debts, and now there's nothing coming in to pay them. Once clear, I dare say I could rub on somehow till I get that thousand pound prize for the best British picture which England is always offering her artists, pour encourager les autres.” "Why can't you finish your picture?" said Wilton. "Because I want modesty; not the quality, which, I am aware, is but too largely developed in your talented but diffident Sandford, but a live model for her. I am waiting like Leonardo da Vinci, for Judas; I search Rome in vain from end to end; all these girls have audacious presences. Who's there?'' For there was a knock at the studio door. 66 Me, Tota; at your service, Signor Guglielmo." Addio, Tota! I don't want you, my dear." "But permit, my Signor; I have something you want." "What, then?" "Modesty, my Signor." "I may want it, but alas! you haven't got it, my Tota." "Ah, but permit, Signor Guglielmo. It is a beautiful little modesty I have for you. Quite new, credit me; you never saw anything like it. Look, then." As Sandford withdrew the bolt, Tota, pushing open the door, stood on the threshold and patted the pretty Nanna on the shoulder. The poor child stood beside her with downcast eyes, ashamed and silent. "Per Bacco! the little one of Frascati," cried Sandford, delighted. "As if she came to my wish! I take this as a good omen, Wilton." Sandford looked at the poor girl, however, with as much pity as admiration. She was evidently entering on a trade not more new than distasteful to her. "Have you never yet been a model?" inquired he, gently. She shook her head, not lifting her eyes, and with her foot pushed about the end of a cigar that had been thrown on the brick floor. a crown, I assure you; I have been the Queen of Heaven herself before now." So she ran on. Nanna's youthful curiosity had somewhat got the better of her shyness, and the grief at her poor little heart. She looked eagerly, though furtively, at Sandford's painting, which appeared so miraculously brilliant to eyes that had seen no pictures but the dim brown canvases in the Duomo at Frascati. "This is your first visit to Rome?" asked Wilton. Tota struck in: "Ah, to be sure it is. She has never before in all her life been in any place but Frascati." 66 Si, si, Tota," interrupted the little thing, softly, and stopped, blushing. "Ma che!" cried Tota; "don't tell fibs, my daughter. Out of Frascati have you never set foot until now." "Ma si, Tata," insisted the girl; "have I not been to our Lady of Tears?" 'Oh, the baby that you are! Only listen, then, dear Signori. Our Lady of Tears is a shabby old virgin made of wood, stuck up in a wall about four miles from Frascati. The only people that she has got to worship her are some poor miserables that live in a dozen cottages like hogsties thereabout. They can't even afford her a glass front, and because her face is half cracked off by the sun and the wind, they pretend she has cried away her colors; and that's how she has come to be called our Lady of Tears. But only simpletons believe that nonsense. Even those poor wretches themselves are heartily ashamed of their trumpery virgin, and beg baiocchi of every stranger who passes, that they may buy a new one." Tota laughed contemptuously, to show her experience and knowledge of the world. Poor Nanna hung her head. She and Felice, her lover, the morning of the day that she left Frascati, had made a little pilgrimage to our Lady of Tears. And being only simpletons, these young creatures had taken comfort in the belief that some drops of autumn raín which hung on the blurred cheek of the poor image they knelt before were indeed tears of a divine sympathy and compassion for their humble loves and griefs. Disheartened by Tota's scornful laugh, the poor child said no more. She let Tota arrange matters with Sandford for her first professional visit to him next day, and mournfully followed her companion out of the studio-forgetting even to courtesy to the Tota, ready and voluble, rushed into a history, chiefly fabul- gentlemen till reminded by Tota, and not echoing her strong and gay Addio, Signori, a domani ! ous. "Listen, my dear Signori. Her father and my husband are friends. Both the two are good and industrious workmen ; brave people, I assure you, but work is so scarce! Long ago we should have died, Pietro and me-died of hunger, my dear Signori, but a certain noble Englishman who made marble images met me, and said, ‘Tota, you are beautiful. Be a model, and earn bread for Pietro and you.' I laughed, for I thought I was ugly, but I did as he advised; and here I am, always at your service, my dear Signori, and I entreat of your goodness to recommend me to all your countrymen, the illustrious English artists who visit our Rome. Now, Antonio (Nanna's father, to serve you) is fallen into great misery, he and the little one here. So I said, 'Send Nanna to Rome with me, Tota; let her do as I do; so pretty as she is, she will earn much, and you will both have to eat.' The poor father was unwilling, he is so fond of the child, whose mother is dead. But what must be, must; need has no master-and eccola !" "Do you dislike to be a model?" said Sandford to Nina. The poor little country girl raised her childish brown eyes, gave him a frightened glance and faltered: Ah, si, Signor." "She has never yet tried it,' "broke in Tota, with a laugh; "how, then, can she tell? Little stupid, what are you afraid of? I tell you it is a fine trade. Now, only do see the ladies in this picture. Gesu Maria! they look handsomer than you and I, and yet I know them all like my ten fingers. That's Carlotta, who is so lean, but you only see her face; and there's Marietta, who is getting quite bald, but she has on a fine crown like the Madonna. There's dirty Giuditta and her baby. Gesu Maria! how superb their colors are! Ah, Signor Guglielmo, why did you not paint me also in there? I also look so well in CHAPTER II. NANNA had been Sandford's model about a fortnight, and the grand allegorical piece approached completion. One day, at noon, Sandford, on going out of his studio in Via Margutta, found Nanna, who had left him about half an hour before, at the street entrance with a young man. They were conversing eagerly, and Nanna's big innocent eyes sparkled through tears of delight. "Ecco mio, Felice !'' said she, exultantly, to Sandford. "At your service, Signor," added the handsome young fellow, saluting him with a glittering smile. Sandford had long since heard her little love-story from the country girl. "Are you come "I congratulate you, my friends," said he. to see your sweetheart, Felice, and to spend the day in Rome?" "Not only this day, but every day, my Signor," replied the lad, laughing outright from sheer glee. "I have obtained excellent engagements in Rome, and I shall be rich enough to marry in some months, if God wills." "And in the meantime I shall see him every day,” cried Nanna, clapping her hands. "Oh, my Signor, what happiness!" She had reconciled her lover to her present occupation by solemnly assuring him that an artist's model was not necessarily one like Tota; that she would never, not even on pain of her father's curse, hire herself for the nude, which Felice had imagined was an inevitable condition of her calling; and that she would never visit Signor Guglielmo, or any other artist, unaccompanied by some female companion. At present she "Perhaps he would kill me," said she, looking up. "I shouldn't wonder," returned Tota, coolly. "Ah!" said Nanna, with a piteous smile, " I shouldn't mind that so much; Felice would be sorry, but he would rather I was dead than disgraced." Sandford pitied the poor girl very much, but saw no way in which he could interfere to help her. And, like most Englishmen, he was easily bored by a scene. It was evident that Nanna, with her disorganized features, reddened eyelids, and agitated nerves, could not perform her part that morning; so he put her five pauls on the table, and nodding kindly, said, "Addio." She took the hint with Italian quickness, kissed his earned only five pauls a day, having as yet sought no engagement but with Sandford, to whom she stood two hours every morning. Her father had come to Rome, and was hanging about, almost always idle, playing at morra and skittles at every street corner with knots of lazy ruffians like himself. He took the whole of her wages, and paid out of it one dollar a week to Tota for his daughter's board and lodging. Although this left him between two and three dollars a week to spend on himself, the lazy vagabond already grumbled, and urged Nanna to seek other employment. She did not dare to tell him that two or three French artists continually waylaid her, and offered lucrative engagements; nor that Signor Carlo, the Englishman she had met, but hardly looked at, on her first visit to Sand-hand humbly, thanked him, and, asking his pardon, walked ford's studio, had for his part marked her but too well, and was for ever running after her with entreaties that she would become his model. But she had ascertained that these propositions were all for the nude, and firmly refused them. Her position in the hands of the dissolute Tota made her refusal sound like mere feigned coyness, so that it by no means freed her from importunities. Neither did she venture to hint at this persecution to Felice, lest it should discompose his present tranquil toleration of her way of life. away. As Tota was following her, making a face half comic, "Tempted, Signor!" said she; but he saw that she understood him. He could do no more; he was not rich enough to outbribe Wilton. French men and women exercise such a fearful and admirable At the corner of Via Margutta Sandford was overtaken by ingenuity even in their basest intrigues, that treason, strataWilton. gem, and plot would almost seem the indigenous growth of "We are both going to Lepre's, I suppose?" said he, and they Gallic brains. Wilton was selfish, unscrupulous, and cursed walked on together. "Oh! pooh, Sandford; it's only a question of time and money, of course, and I would give her anything in reason. I have offered her a silk gown and rings and things. I'm determined to gain my point, and I'll never let her alone till I do; the little innocent is sure to bite at last." "I wouldn't bother the poor child, Wilton," said Sandford; "and did you see the young fellow with her to-day? He is likely to resent any such overtures; and those lads generally carry something dangerous, which let your wisdom fear." "So that's her sweetheart? I thought I knew him again. Well, it gives the thing a zest. The idea of being kept out of one's Iphigenia by a dirty little snob like that! I shall give the silk gown to Tota, and she'll manage the matter for me." Sandford said no more. But next morning Nanna came in panting with fright. with that worst weakness of obstinacy, which always pretends to be resolution, but never by any chance persists except in wrongdoing, and which a man does not possess, but is possessed by. But he was a downright Englishman, and the project which was to secure to him his Iphigenia could never have originated under the roof of a British skull. He had lately become acquainted with some French artstudents in the Villa Medici, and on a certain jovial evening five men concocted a notable scheme which, by its horrible cleverness, was to outwit one simple child. Poor little, pretty, harmless Nanna! One would have thought her unsuspecting innocence might have touched even those faithless hearts with tender reverence. Possibly Wilton himself, demoralized as he was, would have winced at this wicked plot, had it not been first presented to his mind when its worst side was turned uppermost by drink. Next day Nanna was at Sandford's studio, as usual, with a female acquaintance whom she had begged to accompany her, when Tota excused herself on the plea of an engagement of her own. While the girl was earning her five pauls well by her conscientious and patient taskwork, Wilton was seated in a low winehouse in Trastevere with her father and Tota. They were carrying on a mysterious conversation in an undertone; they looked flushed and excited, like three conspirators, as they "What's the matter?" asked Sandford, looking up from his were, half afraid of the naked face of their own guilty purpose. picture. She fell on the model-stand, and began to cry. Tuta, as usual, was voluble enough. "It's nothing-nothing, my Signor," said she; "only we met the Handsome-Tall (Signor Carlo, I mean), and he was very polite, entreating Nanna once more to come to his studio and be painted. That was all-absolutely all; but she's such a little stupid!" Antonio was the first to break up the meeting. "It is agreed, then, Signor Carlo," said he, in a hoarse whisper, and rising from the bench; "but money down-is it understood, Signor ?'' He was a swarthy, ill-looking rascal, and his face at this mo ment was frightful with a grin, half cunning, half nervous. "Oh, understood, understood!" returned Wilton, hastily, with a disgust that certainly could not be called virtuous, but "But you know-you know- -" sobbed Nanna, covering simply English, and which merely made him long to get out of her face. "Signor Guglielmo," cried Tota, throwing out her ten fingers, "I wash my hands of this little fool. That which her betters have done she may do. Ma che! Who is she? and her poor father in want of bread and breeches, saving your presence, Signor Guglielmo. Let him settle it; I shall just turn her over to him. It's nothing to me." Nanna screamed, fell on her knees, and wring her hands. "For the love of God don't tell my father! My Tota, my Tota, have pity on me! He will curse me if I disobey him, and he would sell my soul and body for a scudo." The poor girl was choking with grief and terror. The handsome Tota looked down at her, and no softness came into her fine cruel eyes. "Then don't disobey him," retorted she. Nanna gathered herself together, and sat on the floor. sight of the fellow as quick as possible. "Come to my rooms, Tota, at Mezzodi, and it shall be ready for you. Addio, addio!" and flinging on the table a paul or two for the reckoning, he darted out of the reeking little den. As he walked rapidly away, the fresh air gave him back his bad courage. "Bah!" said he to himself, "what harm will it do the little fool, after all?'' On the following morning Nanna visited Sandford's studio for the last time. The grand allegorical piece was at the point of perfection; a purchaser already nibbled at it in the shape of a Russian count, let out on a holiday, and frolicking in the new sensations of liberty and a Roman October. Nanna came in, gay as a lark, Tota at her shoulder. Her cares and troubles seemed to have passed off like a spring storm; her charming face was all in a glitter of joy. But she knew how entirely Sandford's thoughts were in his picture; the |