LITMIR.BIZ

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      "I remember, Ley. Was she like that?"

      "Yes; only alive. Fancy the girl in the picture alive. Fancy yourself the dog she was smiling at! I was the dog!"

      "Ley!"

      "And she spoke as well as smiled. You can imagine the voice that girl in the picture would have. Soft and musical, but clear as a bell and full of a subtle kind of witchery, half serious, half mockery. It was the voice of the girl I met in the lane this evening."

      "Ley! Ley, you have come to make poetry to me to-night. I am very grateful."

      "Poetry! It is truth. But you are right; such a face, such a voice would make a poet of the hardest man that lives."

      "And you are not hard, Ley! But the girl! Who is she? What is her name?"

      "Her name"—he hesitated a moment, and his voice unconsciously grew wonderfully musical—"is Stella—Stella."

      "Stella!" she repeated. "It is a beautiful name."

      "Is it not? Stella!"

      "And she is—who?"

      "The niece of old Etheridge, the artist, at the cottage."

      Lilian's eyes opened wide.

      "Really, Ley, I must see her!"

      His face flushed, and he looked at her.

      She caught the eager look, and her own paled suddenly.

      "No," she said, gravely. "I will not see her. Ley—you will forget her by to-morrow."

      He smiled.

      "You will forget her by to-morrow. Ley, let me look at you!"

      He turned his face to her, and she looked straight into his eyes, then she put her arm round his neck.

      "Oh, Ley! has it come at last?"

      "What do you mean?" he asked, not angrily, but with a touch of grimness, as if he were afraid of the answer.

      "Ley," she said, "you must not see her again. Ley, you will go to-morrow, will you not?"

      "Why?" he asked. "It is not like you to send me away, Lil."

      "No, but I do. I who look forward to seeing you as the sweetest thing in my life—I who would rather have you near me than be—other than I am—I who lie and wait and listen for your footsteps—I send you, Ley. Think! You must go, Ley. Go at once, for your own sake and for hers."

      He rose, and smiled down at her.

      "For my sake, perhaps, but not for hers. You foolish girl, do you think all your sex is as partial as you are? You did not see her as I saw her to-night—did not hear her ready wit at my expense. For her sake! You make me smile, Lil."

      "I cannot smile, Ley. You will not stay! What good can come of it? I know you so well. You will not be content until you have seen your Venus again, and then—ah, Ley, what can she do but love you, and love you but to lose you? Ley, all that has gone before has made me smile, because with them I knew you were heart-whole; I could look into your eyes and see the light of laughter in their depths; but not this time, Ley—not this time. You must go. Promise me!"

      His face went pale under her gaze, and the defiant look, which so rarely shone out in her presence, came into his eyes, and about his lips.

      "I cannot promise, Lil," he said.

CHAPTER V.

       Table of Contents

      For love lay lurking in the clouds and mist,

       I heard him singing sweetly on the mountain side:

       "'Tis all in vain you fly, for everywhere am I—

       In every quiet valley, on every mountain side!"

      In the clear, bird-like tones of Stella's voice the musical words floated from the open window of her room above and through the open French windows of the old man's studio.

      With a little start he turned his head away from the easel and looked toward the door.

      Stella had only been in the house three days, but he had already learned something of her habits, and knew that when he heard the beautiful voice singing at the window in the early morning, he might expect to see the owner of the voice enter shortly.

      His expectation was not doomed to disappointment. The voice sounded on the stairs, in the hall, and a moment afterward the door opened and Stella stood looking smilingly into the room.

      If he had thought her beautiful and winsome on that first evening of her coming, when she was weary with anxiety and traveling, and dressed in dust-stained clothes, be sure he thought her more beautiful still, now that the light heart felt free to reveal itself, and the shabby dress had given place to the white and simple but still graceful morning gown.

      Mrs. Penfold had worked hard during those three days, and with the aid of the Dulverfield milliner had succeeded in filling a small wardrobe for "her young lady," as she had learned to call her. The old artist, ignorant of the power of women in such direction, had watched the transformation with inward amazement and delight, and was never tired of hearing about dresses, and hats, jackets, and capes, and was rather disappointed than otherwise when he found that the grand transformation had been effected at a very small cost.

      Bright and beautiful she stood, like a vision of youth and health in the doorway, her dark eyes laughingly contemplating the old man's gentle stare of wonder—the look which always came into his eyes when she appeared.

      "Did I disturb you by my piping, uncle?" she asked as she kissed him.

      "Oh no, my dear," he answered, "I like to hear you—I like to hear you."

      She leant against his shoulder, and looked at his work.

      "How beautiful it is!" she murmured. "How quickly it grows. I heard you come down this morning, and I meant to get up, but I was so tired—lazy, wasn't I?"

      "No, no!" he said, eagerly. "I am sorry I disturbed you. I came down as quietly as I could. I knew you would be tired after your dissipation. You must tell me all about it."

      "Yes, come to breakfast and I will tell you."

      "Must I?" he said, glancing at his picture reluctantly.

      He had been in the habit of eating his breakfast by installments, painting while he ate a mouthful and drank his cup of coffee, but Stella insisted upon his changing what she called a very wicked habit.

      "Yes, of course! See how nice it looks," and she drew him gently to the table and forced him into a chair.

      The old man submitted with a sigh that was not altogether one of regret, and still humming she sat opposite the urn and began to fill the cups.

      "And did you enjoy yourself?" he asked, gazing at her dreamily.

      "Oh, very much; they were so kind. Mrs. Hamilton is the dearest old lady; and the doctor—what makes him smile so much, uncle?"

      "I don't know. I think doctors generally do."

      "Oh, very well. Well, he was very kind too, and so were the Miss Hamiltons. It was very nice indeed, and they took so much notice of me—asked me all sorts of questions. Sometimes I scarcely knew what to answer. I think they thought because I had been brought up in Italy, I ought to have spoken with a strong accent, and looked utterly different to themselves. I think they were a little disappointed, uncle."

      "Oh," he said, "and who else was there?"

      "Oh, the clergyman, Mr. Fielding—a very solemn gentleman indeed. He said he didn't see much of you, and hoped he should see me in church."

      Mr. Etheridge rubbed his head and looked rather guilty.

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