will out." The old saying throbbed in her ears as her heart-beats were quickened by reviving terror. Now Thallie knew the sensations of the criminal who cannot be at peace; now she understood the phrase, "And every bush an officer.' And every motor-car that neared the Pension Schwandorf was a limousine upholstered in plum-colored cloth, as cozy as a little boudoir. And every hand that set the pension bell to jangling was the hand of the chauffeur Antonio, who had become her Nemesis.

Sometimes, slipping out alone, Thallie took cab for the suburbs. To delude herself into the thought that she was leaving Florence and her fears behind forever, she penetrated the country-side as far as Grassina or Galluzzo. In the rural loneliness, where olive-trees twisted their blanched limbs beside a brook, she bade the driver stop, alighted from the cab, entered the silvery groves. Here, at last, silence enfolded her; a simple fragrance rose out of the fertile earth, and from the clear heavens was spread a benign refulgence, a divine invitation to serenity. Laying her hands upon her breast,, Thallie raised her pure young face, and with her sky-blue eyes wide open, her lovely lips parted, she whispered:

"O God, Thou knowest that I've never meant any wrong. Please, this once, forgive me my trespasses, as I forgive those who trespassed against me! Don't punish me any more! I promise to be a good girl all the rest of my life."

She returned home determined that thereafter every act and thought should plead for her release from chastisement.

But a lingering uneasiness, added to the heat of the Italian summer, once more absorbed the roses from her cheeks. All her energy evaporated; she could no longer paint pictures even in the PostImpressionist manner. She wondered how she had ever hoped to be a famous artist. One afternoon, putting away her easel and her paint-box, with swimming eyes she descended to the garden. In the leafy arbor, close to the gate-posts still decorated with their crumbling urns, she

sat down beside Frossie, to whom Domenico had just brought a note of condolence from Mme. Bertha Linkow.

The prima donna, her season at the Metropolitan long since finished, was now at St.-Moritz. John Holland, writing from Naples, had informed her of Frossie's tragedy. It was evident that her warm heart had suffered at this news. "For you should know," she had scribbled, in her quaint, Germanic-looking script, "I feel myself a kind of old sister to my dear little Frossie, notwithstanding I am so seldom-times blessed to give her a good hug in my proper person. And to my dear little Thallie it is understood! Yes, and to Aggie also! But for you, poor lamb, so big as are my arms in one direction, I could to-day wish them still bigger already in another; yes, big enough to reach from Schweiz to Florenz! Never mind; maybe that, too, will happen yet."

"That last sentence looks almost like a joke," was Frossie's comment. "But I'm sure she did n't intend it so. Do you think she means that she may come to Florence presently?"

Her sister made no reply. "Thallie, you 're crying!"

"It's nothing. Only I think I 've just said good-by to art. Now I know how Aggie felt when she found out that she was never going to be a singer."

"But, Babykins, if you 'd only go back. to your old style!"

"It's no use. This afternoon I seemed to see it all in its true light. I simply have n't got it in me. And I'd rather stop now than struggle on just to be a flivver. But, O Frossie, it 's so hard to give up the idea of being somebody!"

And once more, behind the screen of leaves and blossoms, the sisters mingled their tears. How many tears were shed, how many sighs were uttered, that summer in Mme. von Schwandorf's genteel pension! Even the uniforms of the Magenta Cavalry now struck a depressing note at tea-time.

At last Aurelius received the longawaited documents from the executors. His daughters fortunately were out.

In obedience to the will of Jabez Outwall, deceased, they had forwarded in care of the Bank of Italy, Branch of Florence, for the benefit of Aurelius Goodchild, Esq., on his proper identification and signature of the customary papers of release in the presence of the American consul, a draft for the sum of fifty thousand and nineteen dollars

"What!"

For the sum of fifty thousand and nineteen dollars and eleven cents, this being, after deduction of the claim of five thousand three hundred dollars, cash advance and interest at six per centum, made by the Bank of Zenasville, Ohio, the prorata share due to Aurelius Goodchild, Esq., according to the schedule. of distributions annexed to and forming part of the adjudication filed in the above.

estate.

Fifty thousand dollars! A half of what he had expected! Fifty thousand and nineteen dollars and-hideous mockery! -eleven cents! His first coherent thought was: "My poor girls! My babies! And I must tell them this!"

Cramming the fatal documents into his. coat-tail pocket, he rushed out, in the heat of the day, to the American consulate, as if, should he delay another instant, even this pro-rata share of the estate might somehow be wrested from him.

The consul accompanied him to the Bank of Italy; the release was signed and attested; the money was placed on deposit, subject to Mr. Goodchild's call. When the consul had departed, Aurelius still stood in the street before the bank, staring fearsomely at that substantial façade, half expecting any moment to see frenzied depositors forming, pass-books in hand, in a long line. He became aware of a bitter taste in his mouth; he discovered that he was mumbling a black cigar which somebody must have pressed upon him in the course of the negotiations. He tore this weed from his polluted lips and hurled it to the pavement. A boyish ragamuffin swooped down upon it with a chirrup of delight.

Aurelius, after mechanically feeling in all his pockets, staggered away toward the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele.

On the far side of that square, the very stones of which seemed boiling in the heatvibrations, the Café Hirsch danced up and down before his eyes. He remembered Constantine Farazounis and the buried treasure.

A straw to grasp at! More than that -a chance to recoup, to swell the legacy far beyond its formerly imagined bulk, to divide among his daughters, instead of this miserable sum, the "untold riches of an ancient dynasty"! He no longer felt the scruples which had forbidden him that golden project. On the contrary, the Egyptian adventure now floated through his panic like a sublime inspiration, a veritable godsend.

But those German archæologists who had been snooping round the pyramid! Oblivious to the fact that the Greek had ceased to appear at the café, Mr. Goodchild set out, between walking and running, across the hot piazza.

Half-way, a new thought stopped him in his tracks. He leaped at a passing cab and cried:

"Hôtel des Grands Ducs!"

And five minutes later, his face streaming, the veins on his forehead congested into knots, his patriarchal beard in extraordinary disorder, he burst into the Tesore's sitting-room.

She rose to her feet in amazement. Her face was whitewashed; her lips were covered with carmine; her black bang was glossy with pomade. The pale-yellow negligée, the costume which any one but Aurelius would have compared to the habiliments of Venusberg, enhanced once more, with its peculiar artfulness, the opulent contours of the International Star. But, then, this was not Mr. Goodchild's usual calling-hour.

His heart was pounding so that he could hardly croak:

"When is it for, this Neapolitan outrage?"

Her near-set eyes gave forth an irre

"Day after to-morrow!"

"Then I am in time to save you!" "Madonna!"

My

"Yes, yes; I am justified now, because I shall make it up many times. daughters will never miss it when I pour into their laps the profits of a certain wonderful investment. They will still be rich, and you, to whom I owe an obligation so delicate that it is not to be expressed in words, will be free of the tyranny which has darkened all your life. And there, in a new world, before a different public, no doubt in Buenos Aires, you will have your heart's desire at last!" "Argentina," she faltered, clutching the chair-back, pallid beneath her whitewash. "But Argentina is zo far from you, an' zo eggspenzive!"

After staring dumfounded at this fortune in her hands, she jumped at Aurelius and twined her arms about him.

"Ah-h-h-h-h! now I know zat you do loaf me!"

And because joy gave her an unusual strength, while he, for his part, was almost foundering from his exertions, the benefactor could not prevent that momentary treason to the dead. But the next instant, eluding the International Star, he gained the door on bending legs. Even for Mr. Goodchild, conversant as he was with the ideas of Plato and the early Christian Church, so lately re-fortified in the high resolves of half a lifetime, this last emotional climax was one to be escaped without delay!

"To-morrow!" he gasped. "To-morrow!"

The door came shut behind him. The shoulders of the famous black broadcloth coat were well smeared with liquid powder, but Aurelius was safe. If he had but

known that so far as this cajolery went, he was now safe forever!

He dashed off to the Café Hirsch.

The place was empty at this torrid hour; only Otto was there, seated at the table by the plate-glass window, oblivious to the flies that buzzed around his rosy jowls, nodding over a copy of "Die Woche." But when Aurelius rushed in, the little Swiss waiter stood up with a look of consternation.

"Himmel! it is Mr. Gootschild, stroken by the heat!"

"Monseer Farazounis?"
"Not here, as you can see."
"His address!"

"Ach, Mr. Gootschild, the address of that gentleman he has not been giving it avay on hand-bills. But do sit down for a moment, yust to please Otto. Da! Now a leedle something cooling, a syrup of limes and seltzer? I could even make cold a towel for your head?”

"I tell you I must find him instantly!" "So? Then supposing I should send a boy to the police, vhere is recorded all the domiciles?"

"That's it! Only be quick!"

But the period of waiting that ensued seemed endless to Aurelius. He was sure that the Greek had left Florence in a huff, that this gorgeous opportunity was to be denied him. His fright returned; perhaps he had been a bit hasty in giving the Tesore that five thousand dollars. Again he jerked out his watch. An hour, and no news of Constantine! This certainly meant ruin. His rolling gaze encountered the Swiss waiter, standing at a distance, watching, in his old attitude of dejection.

The hotel on the Corniche Road, between Nice and Monte Carlo!

Almost without his bidding the words tumbled out of Mr. Goodchild's mouth: "Otto, if you can set up in that business on a capital of twenty-five thousand francs, I'll back you."

The waiter's countenance turned ashen. Tearing off his apron, the badge of hateful slavery, he staggered forward to kneel at Mr. Goodchild's feet. The tears fairly squirted from his eyes as he kissed the

hand of this wild-eyed liberator, this disheveled demigod, who had made his dream come true.

"Mein Gott! Das neue leben!" Constantine Farazounis entered the

café.

His swarthy visage, too, was pale; even his flat lips, beneath the crinkly mustaches, had lost most of their vermilion hue; his coffee-colored eyeballs, however, were uncommonly bloodshot. Furthermore, all his features expressed the excitement of a man to whose conscience a sudden call suggests a dozen possibilities, ranging in attractiveness from ready money to a cell. But when he had shot a glance as swift as lightning round the bare café, he came forward with a more assured mien, folded his arms, bestowed on Aurelius a look in which reproach and suffering were admirably blended.

"Well, here I am, my gentleman." "Thank Heaven! I thought I had lost you!"

The Greek, still motionless, like an effigy of injured friendship, contented himself with raising his eyebrows sadly. "And?"

"Oh, Farazounis, believe me, if I have in any way offended you, it was not through lack of confidence or gratitude. But now the qualms that restrained me have been swept away; it is not only a pleasure, but a duty, to accept your generous proposal. I conjure you, tell me that offer still stands open!"

your

The Greek responded:

"My sir, I have not a hard heart. I bear no malices. I remember other days when we gave each to each those tokens of affection. So even now I am willing to say yes. Is it come, the money? Then I shall start to-night for Egypt."

And while Aurelius, arm in arm with Constantine Farazounis, was making one more journey to the Bank of Italy, there occurred in another part of town a meeting which, if it had come about a few days earlier, would have saved the Goodchild family considerable worry.

Thallie, too restless to await the evening breeze at home, had ventured out for

a walk. Chance brought her finally to Santa Croce. She entered the cool church, unaware that for half an hour a man had been following her.

She found herself almost alone in that historic edifice, the many haphazard embellishments of which gave it a motley appearance. As she wandered up the nave, between massive columns of serena all adorned with antique coats of arms, the heels of her little buckskin shoes clicked loudly on the pavement studded with the lids of tombs. From each of the western windows, set with fourteenth-century stained-glass, a shaft of polychromatic light descended, to enfold for a moment the white-clad, lissome figure that floated toward the transept. The man who was hesitating on the threshold gave vent to a long sigh.

Pausing, casting round her an uncertain look, Thallie recalled some traditions of this sanctuary. Here many of Italy's illustrious dead were laid at rest. Beyond that doorway the Inquisition had forced Galileo to recant. And once upon a time, when Fra Francesco da Montepulciano held the pulpit, this nave had resounded with the wails of thousands swooning from remorse-a vast cry had rolled against the rafters, "Misericordia, misericordia, misericordia!" Hark! Like an echo from the past a smothered groan drifted through the silence.

Or was it the response of her own heart, still condemned to suffer for the folly of a moment?

"But all my life so far," she thought, "has been made up of foolish dreams and sad awakenings."

A moss-rose, given her by a former model whom she had just met in the Mercato Nuovo, was pinned to her belt; she wanted to place this flower on the tomb of Michelangelo, whose genius she had recently derided. She turned to enter the right-hand aisle, where that great Florentine lay buried. An unhappy man was standing in her path. It was M. Alphonse Zolande, the painting-teacher.

How old he looked, with his wrinkled, leathery face, his snow-white pompadour

and mustaches and imperial! He was shabby again: the velveteen coat was fine no longer; the pointed boots, bereft of lacquer, were split across the toes. To-day his faded, flowing tie exhaled not the slightest scent of chypre. The perfumebottle was empty.

His chin jumped up and down half a dozen times before he could articulate: "Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle, I beseech you, don't turn away from me!"

She stood looking at him in pity. "Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle, I must entreat you first to pardon me. I have suffered so much, thinking that to you must always be a hateful creature. But how can I hope for you to understand my weakness-you, who are like that rose!" Her delicate skin began to flush as she responded in unsteady tones:

"I understand, and I forgive you." "Ah, how angelic you are! But who should know that better than I? How many times have I not cursed my ignoble faculties, which refused to acknowledge that you were different from others, like a saint enshrined behind candles of pure wax!"

At this she bowed her head.

The painting-teacher whisked out a tattered handkerchief in order to blow his

nose.

"But I shall not bother you with words which are of no interest to you. This is the last time, Mademoiselle, that you will have to bear the sight of me. I am going back to Paris. In departing I want to do you the only service in my power. Mademoiselle, there is in Florence a certain Greek who calls himself Constantine Farazounis. You know the name? At least Monsieur Goodchild does, for every day they are together in the Café Hirsch, Piazza Vittorio Emanuele. But this Farazounis is a rascal, a cheat, a thief. He will end by ruining your father." Much disturbed, she said:

"It 's kind of you to tell me this." "Mademoiselle, it is you who are kind. to listen. And now, because this meeting can hardly be a pleasure to you, adieu, and good luck forever."

He started back, his leathery face disorganized by shame.

"No, Mademoiselle!"

On a sudden impulse she unpinned the moss-rose from her belt.

'At least you'll accept this in memory of those mornings when I used to make your coffee?"

Gingerly he took the rose between his fingers. His knees sagging, he watched. her pass through the polychromatic shafts of light from the stained-glass windows, like an immaculate young soul progressing from one glory to another over a pavement of old tombs. She went quickly, for her throat, too, was swelling. Both were thinking of the happy hours, four flights up-stairs in Via de' Bardi, when age had groped backward in the hope of love, when youth had reached forward in the desire for fame. Both knew that the longings which had beautified those days. were never to be fulfilled.

She had gained the Lungarno before she recalled Constantine Farazounis.

Reaching home, she flew to Frossie with this news. When Mr. Goodchild appeared, the two girls confronted him. Aurelius had no choice but to tell them everything.

In the midst of her dismay there came to Thallie, as naturally as a faith in a superior being whose protective powers were infallible, the thought of John Holland. And for some reason it seemed neither strange nor presumptuous to send to him in Naples this telegram:

We are in trouble. Could you come to

us?

That same night the answer was delivered at the pension: John Holland would arrive in Florence next day.

Thallie went to the railroad station to meet him.

Although too uneasy to have felt, while