turn, and sent it up by Betsy, with baked potatoes,
and a rhubarb tart. I got out one of the best
tablecloths, and gave him my own pickles, as
well as a bit of Durham mustard. I am sure he
might well smile at Betsy, and say Miss Patty
was a first-rate cook. I know he did, for I was
peeping in at the door to see if he took pickles.

A day or two later found the signor quite
settled in his new apartments. These, by the
addition of his bits of ornaments, so changed
that you could hardly recognise them. The
portraits were gone. I managed beautifully about
them. I told mother I was quite miserable when
shut out from the contemplation of my beloved
parents; and, by the slightest return of tic,
persuaded her to allow them to be hung opposite
the fireplace in our sitting-room.

Monsieur nodded to me when I went to see
them taken down in safety, and asked Joe to
remain and fix some pictures of his. Oh me! those
pictures! I was half an hour examining them
when I next did the room. There were
landscapes and sea views, and waterfalls and ruins.
But, chief of all, there were two portraits of
monsieur himself. One over the fireplace—half
length, as large as life—a beautiful thing! with
a pensive look in the eyes, and lips like vermilion.
The other, his very moral, but rather peculiar.
It represented him standing with his hands under
his coat-tails—just as I have seen him stand fifty
times a day before the fire. I could have told it
anywhere, though there was not a morsel of the
face to be seen—only the thick-set, short figure,
and the curly hair. It was the thing altogether
that was so like.

And there was another portrait. I don't overlook
that ; for it was a lady's picture. A dark,
cold face, with great black eyes that always
looked at you wherever you stood in the room,
and long hair falling in disorder over the one
cheek, while the other side was looped up with
a red ribbon. I dare say it was what people call
a fine face, but I didn't admire it. For a long
time I thought it was monsieur's sister, but I
found out afterwards that it wasn't; and I never
can have any patience with a woman who was so
careless and untidy that she couldn't do up both
sides of her hair, even to have her picture taken.

So, unmarked by any very great event, passed
the summer and autumn, and the evenings began
to close in earlier, and monsieur liked to have a
fire lit for when he came in after tea-time. And
regularly I put his dressing-gown and slippers
before the fire, and drew the curtains and set
the tea-things. And as regularly when he passed
the kitchen going up-stairs, looking fagged and
anxious with his day's work, I popped a bit of
bacon or something nice on the fire to comfort
him. No doubt I took a great deal of trouble
about only a lodger ; but there are some people
for whom one can never do too much, and Signor
Angelo was one.

"Miss Patty," he would say very often, "you
are too good. You pierce my heart with your
kindness." And when he said it he always laid
his hand on his heart, as if it did really pain
him. What wonder, then, that I took more and
more interest in one so grateful, that as I saw
him grow pale, and thin, and lose his appetite,
hour after hour sit pensive in the evening,
rousing himself with a visible effort when one of
his many pupils came for a lesson—what wonder
that my heart was lacerated by compassion ? Or
that one night, when he had sent away his tea
untouched, I ventured to knock at his door, and
ask if I could do anything for his comfort?

To this day I can see him as he was that night
—sitting in the easy-chair, in his shawl-patterned
dressing-gown, with his feet crossed on
the fender. A little glow over the hearth-rug,
a little light falling on the lady's picture in the
corner—all the rest of the room half-dark.

"Dear monsieur," I said, "I am afraid you
are not well. You do not eat, and you seem
harassed and overworked. Might I recommend
a little cup of my wormwood-tea every morning
before breakfast? It is the finest thing in the
world for creating an appetite."

Signor Angelo jerked his hand from his forehead,
and leant forward. There was a smouldering
fire in his eye, and his voice trembled with
earnestness.

"Mrs. Patty, you are very good—you are
always good. But will remedies for the body
effect a cure to the mind ? No! there are
some ailments that are beyond the reach of
human alleviation. Mrs. Patty, there is a disease
called LOVE. Nay, Mrs.—Miss Patty—dear
Miss Patty—do not turn from me! You will
drive me to despair if you look so. Oh, Miss
Patty, I did not intend to address you thus;
but your extreme kindness encourages me.
Would you give me leave? Would you sit down
for one minute ?"

He had risen and drawn me to the arm-chair ;
and he now stood with his folded arms resting
on the mantelpiece, and his eyes bent down on
the china shepherdesses.

I pitied him so very much that I was just
going to assure him of my anxiety to relieve him
at any expense——But I did not wish to be
precipitate, so I only blushed and wished the
woman in the corner would take her eyes off
me.

Striking his breast in the vehemence of his
feeling. Monsieur Angelo continued:

"Miss Patty, your feminine tenderness will
have sympathy with my weakness. You have
observed that picture in the corner? It is a
feeble representation of its original ; but, believe
me, my betrothed is an angel!"

I jumped up as if I had been shot." Excuse
me, I left the saucepan on the fire, and I hear it
boiling over."

"But you will come back to hear my history,
dear Miss Patty ? I wish you so much to know
and love my Vittoria."

I could hardly force a "yes" as I hurried
from the room.

There are some moments in life stamped so
indelibly on memory that not even the friction
of long years can annihilate the impression.
Once, at least, during a lifetime, even the most
sober-minded have a transient dream and a rude