principal lady, quarrelled with the manager,
quarrelled with my friend; and here I am
back at Pisa, with a little money saved, in my
pocket, and no great notion what I am to do
next."

"Back at Pisa! Why did you leave it?"

Brigida's eyes began to lose their indolent.
expression. She sat up suddenly in her chair,
and set one of her hands heavily on a little
table by her side.

"Why?" she repeated, "Because when I
find the game going against me, I prefer
giving it up at once to waiting to be beaten."

"Ah! you refer to that last year's project
of yours for making your fortune among the
sculptors. I should like to hear how it was
you failed with the wealthy young amateur.
Remember that I fell ill before you had any
news to give me. Your absence when I
returned from Lucca, and, almost immediately
afterwards, the marriage of your intended
conquest to the sculptor's daughter, proved
to me, of course, that you must have failed.
But I never heard how. I know nothing at
this moment but the bare fact that Maddalena
Lomi won the prize."

"Tell me, first, do she and her husband live
together happily?"

"There are no stories of their disagreeing.
She has dresses, horses, carriages, a negro
page, the smallest lap-dog in Italy—in short,
all the luxuries that a woman can want; and
a child, by-the-by, into the bargain."

"A child!"

"Yes; a child, born little more than a week
ago."

"Not a boy, I hope?"

"No; a girl."

"I am glad of that. Those rich people
always want the first-born to be an heir.
They will both be disappointed. I am glad
of that!"

"Mercy on us, Brigida, how fierce  you
look!"

"Do I?  It's likely enough. I hate Fabio
d'Ascoli and Maddalena Lomi—singly as
man and woman, doubly as man and wife.
Stop!  I'll tell you what you want to know
directly. Only answer me another question
or two first. Have you heard anything about
her health?"

"How should I hear? Dress-makers can't
inquire at the doors of the nobility."

"True. Now, one last question: That little
simpleton, Nanina?"

"I have never seen or heard anything of
her. She can't be at Pisa, or she would have
called at our place for work."

"Ah! I need not have asked about her if
I had thought a moment beforehand. Father
Bocco would be sure to keep her out of
Fabio's sight, for his niece's sake."

"What, he really loved that ' thread-paper
of a girl,' as you called her?"

"Bletter than fifty such wives as he has
got now! I was in the studio the morning
he was told of her departure from Pisa.
A letter was privately given to him, telling
him that the girl had leit the place out of a
feeling of honour, and had hidden herself
beyond the possibility of discovery to prevent
him from compromising himself with all his
friends by marrying her. Naturally enough
he would not believe that this was her own
doing; and, naturally enough, also, when
Father Rocco was sent for, and was not to be
found, he suspected the priest of being at the
bottom of the business. I never saw a man
in such a fury of despair and rage before.
He swore that he would have all Italy
searched for the girl, that he would be the
death of the priest, and that he would never
enter Luca Lomi's studio again—— "

"And, as to this last particular, of course
being a man, he failed to keep his word?"

"Of course. At that first visit of mine to
the studio I discovered two things. The first,
as I have said, that Fabio was really in love
with the girl—the second, that Maddalena
Lomi was really in love with him. You may
suppose I looked at her attentively while the
disturbance was going on, and while nobody's
notice was directed on me. All women are
vain, I know, but vanity never blinded my
eyes. I saw directly that I had but one
superiority over her— my figure. She was
my height, but not well-made. She had hair
as dark and as glossy as mine; eyes as
bright and as black as mine; and the rest of
her face better than mine. My nose is coarse,
my lipa are too thick, and my upper lip
overhangs my under too far. She had none of
those personal faults; and, as for capacity,
she managed the young fool in his passion, as
well as I could have managed him in her
place."

"How?"

"She stood silent, with downcast eyes, and
a distressed look all the time he was raving
up and down the studio. She must have
hated the girl, and been rejoiced at her
disappearance; but she never showed it.
' You would be an awkward rival,' (I thought
to myself) ' even to a handsomer woman than
I am.' However, I determined not to despair
too soon, and made up my mind to follow my
plan just as if the accident of the girl's
disappearance had never occurred. I smoothed
down the master sculptor easily enough
—flattering him about his reputation, assuring
him that the works of Luca Lomi had been
the objects of my adoration since childhood,
telling him that I had heard of his difficulty
in finding a model to complete his Minerva
from, and offering myself (if he thought me
worthy) for the honour laying great stress
on that word—for the honour of sitting to
him. I don't know whether he was altogether
deceived by what I told him; but he was
sharp enough to see that I really could be of
use, and he accepted my offer with a profusion
of compliments. We parted, having arranged
that I was to give him a first sitting in a
week's time."