LITMIR.BIZ

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      "Remember, they were written with someone looking over my shoulder."

      Something like an imprecation, surely the first that he had uttered for many a long year, was smothered on the gentle lips.

      "I could not know that—I could not know that, Stella! Your father thought it best—I have his last letter. My child, do not cry——"

      She raised her face.

      "I am not crying; I never cry when I think of papa, uncle, Why should I? I loved him too well to wish him back from Heaven."

      The old man looked down at her with a touch of awe in his eyes.

      "Yes, yes," he murmured; "it was his wish that you should remain there at school. He knew what I was, an aimless dreamer, a man living out of the world, and no fit guardian for a young girl. Oh, yes, Harold knew. He acted for the best, and I was content. My life was too lonely, and quiet, and lifeless for a young girl, and I thought that all was right, while those fiends——"

      She put her hand on his arm.

      "Do not let us speak of them, or think of them any more, uncle. You will let me stay with you, will you not? I shall not think your life lonely; it will be a Paradise after that which I have left—Paradise. And, see, I will strive to make it less lonely; but"—and she turned suddenly with a look of troubled fear—"but perhaps I shall be in your way?" and she looked round.

      "No, no," he said, and he put his hand to his brow. "It is strange! I never felt my loneliness till now! and I would not have you go for all the world!"

      She wound her arms round him, and nestled closer, and there was silence for a space; then he said:

      "How old are you, Stella?"

      She thought a moment.

      "Nineteen, uncle."

      "Nineteen—a child!" he murmured; then he looked at her, and his lips moved inaudibly as he thought, "Beautiful as an angel," but she heard him, and her face flushed, but the next moment she looked up frankly and simply.

      "You would not say that much if you had seen my mamma. She was beautiful as an angel. Papa used to say that he wished you could have seen her; that you would have liked to paint her. Yes, she was beautiful."

      The artist nodded.

      "Poor, motherless child!" he murmured.

      "Yes, she was beautiful," continued the girl, softly. "I can just remember her, uncle. Papa never recovered from her death. He always said that he counted the days till he should meet her again. He loved her so, you see."

      There was silence again; then the artist spoke:

      "You speak English with scarcely an accent, Stella."

      The girl laughed; it was the first time she had laughed, and it caused the uncle to start. It was not only because it was unexpected, but because of its exquisite music. It was like the trill of a bird. In an instant he felt that her childish sorrow had not imbittered her life or broken her spirit. He found himself almost unconsciously laughing in harmony.

      "What a strange observation, uncle!" she said, when the laugh had died away. "Why I am English! right to the backbone, as papa used to say. Often and often he used to look at me and say: 'Italy has no part and parcel in you beyond your birth, Stella; you belong to that little island which floats on the Atlantic and rules the world.' Oh, yes, I am English. I should be sorry to be anything else, notwithstanding mamma was an Italian."

      He nodded.

      "Yes, I remember Harold—your father—always said you were an English girl. I am glad of that."

      "So am I," said the girl, naively.

      Then he relapsed into one of his dreamy silences, and she waited silent and motionless. Suddenly he felt her quiver under his arm, and heave a long, deep sigh.

      With a start he looked down; her face had gone wofully pale to the very lips.

      "Stella!" he cried, "what is it? Are you ill? Great Heaven!"

      She smiled up at him.

      "No, no, only a little tired; and," with naive simplicity, "I think I am a little hungry. You see, I only had enough for the fare."

      "Heaven forgive me!" he cried, starting up so suddenly as almost to upset her. "Here have I been dreaming and mooning while the child was starving. What a brainless idiot I am!"

      And in his excitement he hurried up and down the room, knocking over a painting here and a lay figure there, and looking aimlessly about as if he expected to see something in the shape of food floating in the air.

      At last with his hand to his brow he bethought him of the bell, and rang it until the little cottage resounded as if it were a fire-engine station. There was a hurried patter of footsteps outside, the door was suddenly opened, and a middle-aged woman ran in, with a cap very much awry and a face startled and flushed.

      "Gracious me, sir, what's the matter?" she exclaimed.

      Mr. Etheridge dropped the bell, and without a word of explanation, exclaimed—"Bring something to eat at once, Mrs. Penfold, and some wine, at once, please. The poor child is starving."

      The woman looked at him with amazement, that increased as glancing round the room she failed to see any poor child, Stella being hidden behind the antique high-backed chair.

      "Poor child, what poor child! You've been dreaming, Mr. Etheridge!"

      "No, no!" he said, meekly; "it's all true, Mrs. Penfold. She has come all the way from Florence without a morsel to eat."

      Stella rose from her ambush.

      "Not all the way from Florence, uncle," she said.

      Mrs. Penfold started and stared at the visitor.

      "Good gracious me!" she exclaimed; "who is it?"

      Mr. Etheridge rubbed his brow.

      "Did I not tell you? It is my niece—my niece Stella. She has come from Italy, and—I wish you'd bring some food. Bring a bottle of the old wine. Sit down and rest, Stella. This is Mrs. Penfold—she is my housekeeper, and a good woman, but,"—he added, without lowering his tone in the slightest, though he was evidently under the idea that he was inaudible—"but rather slow in comprehension."

      Mrs. Penfold came forward, still flushed and excited, and with a smile.

      "Your niece, sir! Not Mr. Harold's daughter that you so often have spoken of! Why, how did you come in, miss?"

      "I found the door open," said Stella.

      "Good gracious me! And dropped from the clouds! And that must have been an hour ago! And you, sir," looking at the bewildered artist reproachfully, "you let the dear young thing sit here with her hat and jacket on all that time, after coming all that way, without sending for me."

      "We didn't want you," said the old man, calmly.

      "Want me! No! But the dear child wanted something to eat, and to rest, and to take her things off. Oh, come with me, miss! All the way from Florence, and Mr. Harold's daughter!"

      "Go with her, Stella," said the old man, "and—and," he added, gently, "don't let her keep you long."

      The infinite tenderness of the last words caused Stella to stop on her way to the door; she came back, and, putting her arms around his neck, kissed him.

      Then she followed Mrs. Penfold up-stairs to her room, the good woman talking the whole while in exclamatory sentences of astonishment.

      "And you are Mr. Harold's daughter. Did you see his portrait over the mantel-shelf, miss? I should have known you by that, now I come to look at you," and she looked with affectionate interest into the beautiful face, as she helped Stella to take off her hat. "Yes, I should have known you, miss, in a moment? And you have come all the way from Italy? Dear

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