curled the waves in the bay, the sails of a few little fishing-boats flapped idly against their masts, the rowers of a small pleasure skiff were resting on their oars, a few persons walking on the shore stood still; there was an evident expectation of something. Suddenly, in one moment, the sun was lost under the horizon; and instantly from all the churches in Naples rang out the Ave Maria.

Then again the sails were strained to the mast and set to catch the first breath of wind, the oars were dipped into the sea and splashed merrily as the pleasure-party returned to the shore, and the ramblers on the beach continued their walk.

There was one who had neither stood still, nor listened for the bells, nor joined in the Angelus; one who had gazed with contemptuous scorn as the rough fishermen knelt in their boats, and with a sarcastic smile at a priest who reverently crossed himself as she passed him-a young English girl. Her figure was tall and stately and while she walked with that perfect ease and grace which is the peculiar heirloom of England's high-born daughters, there was a firmness and decision in her tread, and an expression of haughty defiance in her eye, which seemed hardly consistent with the freshness and elasticity of youth. And yet Edith Sydney had only just entered her nineteenth year: what right had she to walk as if she were crushing the whole world under her feet at every step? What had it done to her, or she to it, that even at that early age she had nothing left for it but scorn?

That evening's scene was no new one to her;

day after day she had witnessed it, for day after day she had come to watch the sunset on that southern shore

Where the summer hath no twilight,

And the salt sea hath no tide.

Often too she had sketched it; for Edith was a true artist, and though she despised the reality of Catholic devotion, she fully appreciated its aesthetic beauty. But this evening her thoughts were evidently little occupied even with "the beautiful" in the scene before her; after that one scornful gaze, her brow contracted as if with some keen suffering, and as she passed on to a lonely part of the beach a short quick sigh escaped her. Something moved close to her; she started, for she had fancied herself alone, and looking down she saw a child, perhaps five years old, kneeling on the ground with a rosary in his fingers. His eyes were fixed intently on a red streak in the sky; they were those large lustrous eyes, soft and yet passionate, which are seldom met with in our cold northern land, and their expression was one of pure, simple, childlike love. Everything beautiful, either in nature or art, had a peculiar charm for Edith; and, stooping down, she kissed the child's brow, at the same time asking his name.

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Leonardo, signora," replied the child. "Ah," thought she, "a painter's name, and a painter's eye. I wonder if Leonardo da Vinci

had eyes like that?”

Meanwhile the child went quietly on with his

rosary.

"Who taught you to pray?" asked Edith abruptly.

The child looked a little surprised, but replied

at once:

"Padre Giuseppe."

"O, a priest !" said Edith, with the slightest possible shrug of her shoulders. But children are quicker of observation than many of us think, and little Leonardo fired up at the implied slight, and poured forth a rapid and energetic panegyric on Father Joseph.

"Well, well, never mind all that," said Edith impatiently, and very unceremoniously cutting short a list of his virtues; "tell me where you live, and what you do all day."

It appeared his father was a fisherman; his mother was dead, and he had no brothers or sisters. On calm days he went with his father sometimes to fish; in rough weather he sat at home, and mended the broken nets as well as he could; sometimes he joined other children at their play; but the chief feature in his daily life was a half-hour every morning with Father Joseph, who taught him his catechism and prayers and hymns, and moreover had promised to let him serve at the altar when he was old enough. Edith did not make much out of his story, for though she spoke Italian well and easily, she was by no means familiar with Neapolitan provincialisms; but she had been studying the boy's face as he spoke, and when he stopped she said:

"You must come and spend to-morrow morning with me."

"What for?" he asked bluntly; evidently his new acquaintance had not inspired him with any great confidence.

"What for?" replied Edith rather sharply; "I'm not going to eat you, child. I want you, that's all; and I will give you some pretty pictures and some bonbons."

"I don't want them," he replied in rather a sulky tone.

"So!" said Edith, "is that the way your friend the priest tells you to answer a lady? He does not teach you politeness, at any rate."

"He teaches me to be good and obedient," replied Leonardo, who, never having heard of politeness," was quite at a loss to understand what duty he was accused of failing in.

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"Then be obedient, and come when I ask you," said Edith; come to my house to-morrow at ten;" and she described its situation.

The child gave her a puzzled, frightened look, and then again asked:

"What for?"

"What on earth do you take me for?" exclaimed Edith, provoked beyond measure at the child's pertinacity; "are you afraid of being stolen? I want to draw a picture of you; there, will that satisfy you? will you come now?"

"I will ask Padre Giuseppe, and if he says I may, I will," replied Leonardo.

"Ask a priest if you may have your picture taken!" replied Edith contemptuously. "Well, that is going pretty far," she added mentally: "what tyrants they must be!"

"I must ask if I may come to your house,

signora," he said, "because it is in the town, and I may not go there without leave."

"O, afraid of those pretty eyes getting into mischief! Well, there is some sense in that ; but you will be quite safe with me, and I will take you back to your home myself in the afternoon. Will that do for you? won't you promise to come now?"

But Leonardo was proof against both bribery and coaxing. He smiled and looked pleased, but still replied firmly :

"I will come if I may."

That smile touched some chord in Edith's heart.

"You have lost your mother; do you remember her?" she asked, with so sudden a change of manner and softening of tone that it was hardly like the same person who was speaking but a moment before.

"No, signora, she died when I was a little baby," he replied; and a large tear rolled down his cheek: the thought of his mother, the longing to have known her, was his one only sorrow. Once again Edith stooped and kissed his forehead, and as she did so said in a rapid low tone, as if half-ashamed of the sympathy she was expressing:

"So did mine."

Then turning away she took out a card, wrote a few words in pencil on the back of it, and giving it to the child said:

“There, show that to Padre Giuseppe, and tell him I will take good care of you if he will let you come to me to-morrow; and, without waiting

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