"You are not wrong, Helen," continued Armstrong, "unless you understand

President Eliot to mean that the ages which have come since these great

men lived have been able to add particularly to what has gone before.

All that is included in what Cerini says."

"Then the present, which I love so well, means nothing?"

"It means a great deal." Armstrong laughed at the injured tone of

Helen's voice. "The great material achievements of the present, which

you just heard cited by Miss Thayer and Uncle Peabody, are of vast

importance, but the age does not stand out as a period of intellectual

progression. The achievements themselves, and the new conditions which

they introduce, make that impossible."

"Can we not admire the past and enjoy what it has given us without

becoming a part of it ourselves?" persisted Helen.

"Not if we remain true to our ideals. I spoke just now of Leonardo and

Michelangelo as being the foremost examples of humanists. By that I mean

that they represent the highest point of intellectual manhood. Da Vinci

was a great writer, a great painter, a great scientist, a great

engineer, a great mechanician, while Buonarroti was famous not only as a

sculptor, but also as a painter, an architect, and a poet. And these men

had to develop their own precedent, while all who have striven for more

than mediocrity since then have propped themselves up on the work of

these and other great masters. Can you wonder that my own great

ambition, quite impossible of accomplishment, is to emulate these

men--not in the same pursuits, but in some way, in any way, which

enables me to give to the world the best that is in me. Should I gratify

myself in this, that which I accomplished would be done simply in the

fulfilment of my effort, and I should gain my recompense in the

knowledge that it _was_ my best. This is my understanding of Cerini's

creed."

"All this is most interesting," admitted Helen. "It is indeed splendid

to know the ancients intimately, and to receive their inspiration. It is

fine to imitate them and to rehearse their lessons, but I don't see why

we should bind ourselves down to the old-time limitations by using their

methods when, to my mind, our own methods are so much better suited to

modern conditions?"

"Your position is fully justified, Helen, if you really believe these

methods to be limitations," replied Armstrong, seriously. "For my part,

I do not feel this. I accept the Cerini creed without qualification. I

grant you that many things of the past are limitations, but there are

certain cardinal principles which must remain the same so long as the

world lasts and which are not subject to what you call 'modern

conditions.'"

"To be wholly consistent, Jack," pursued Uncle Peabody, "should you not

adopt their tongue--as called for in the creed?"

"Not necessarily, as the 'creed' is, of course, idealistic; but the only

reason I do not do so is because of the limitations which are placed

upon us--this time by modern civilization. Cerini and I converse for

hours together in the Latin tongue, but it is very seldom that I find

the opportunity to do this. Why is it that Latin is used in medicine, in

botany, in science, to give names to various specimens or species?

Simply because French, German, Italian, English may be forgotten

languages a few centuries hence, but Latin--the so-called dead

language--will be as enduring then as now."

"I can never hope to become as much of an enthusiast as you, Mr.

Armstrong," Inez said, finally, as the others gave up the argument in

despair; "and I suppose you will never forgive me if I say that I fear

it would be very uncomfortable for me if I did. You must simply let me

browse around the edges as a neophyte while you and the master quaff the

nectar and ambrosia of the gods."

"And I cannot even do that," added Helen, rising from the balustrade.

"I cannot give up my dear present even to agree with my learned husband.

You don't want me to say that I am sorry I am living among all these

imperfect conditions when I really find them very satisfactory and

enjoyable? It is wrong of you so to break down my modern idols. There

are our guests," she continued, as a laughing group appeared on the

veranda. "As penance I decree that you shall take each of us by the hand

and lead us back to the villa--the Humanist flanked by the Pagan and the

Christian. Arise, thou ancient one, and lead us on!"

VI

The visits which Armstrong and Miss Thayer made to the library became of

daily occurrence. Encouraged by his companion's interest, and the

eagerness with which she assimilated the enthusiasm which he and Cerini

were only too willing to share with her, Armstrong promptly embraced a

scheme for definite work suggested to him by the librarian. Inez at

first proved only a sympathetic spectator, but by the third or fourth

day she found herself a distinct part of the working force. She demurred

half-heartedly, but when it became evident that she could really make

herself of service she entered into it with characteristic intensity

which increased from day to day.

Soon after the departure of the guests the automobile arrived, and

transformed Armstrong from a Humanist into an Egoist and then into a

Mechanist. For the moment the material concern took precedence over the

intellectual.

"Of course I expect to have the chauffeur do the work once we are under

way," he half apologized to Uncle Peabody, who with a good-natured

interest watched him taking the precious machine to pieces; "but before

I trust it to any one I must understand it thoroughly myself."

"Quite right, quite right," Uncle Peabody assented, cheerfully. "I

believe in that theory entirely. I have noticed when my friends have

found themselves stalled on the road that it never annoys them half so

much if they can explain the reason why. Besides, from a secondary

consideration, I suppose it adds something to the safety to know the

machine yourself."

As the car had arrived in advance of the chauffeur, Armstrong had plenty

of time to study the mechanism. It came to pieces with consummate ease.

Its new owner had never claimed much knowledge along these lines, but

the simplicity of this particular machine increased his respect for his

judgment as a purchaser and his natural though hitherto undeveloped

ability as a mechanic.

"These Frenchmen," he confided enthusiastically to Uncle Peabody, "have

the rest of the world beaten to a stand-still in building automobiles.

My hat is off to them."

"Would you not be even more comfortable if you removed your shirt as

well?" suggested Uncle Peabody, mischievously, as he glanced

sympathetically at Armstrong's face, from which the perspiration rolled

down onto his collar in response to his unusual exertions and the heat

of the full Italian sun.

"It is nearly to pieces now," Armstrong replied, complacently. "I will

wait until it is cooler before I set it up again."

True to his word, Armstrong began work on the restoration early next

morning, but the heat of the day found him still at his labors and in no

cheerful frame of mind. Uncle Peabody's philosophical suggestions had

proved unacceptable some hours before. Helen's remark that she did not

believe the three extra pieces Jack held despairingly in his hand had

come from that particular machine at all brought forth such a withering

expression of pitying contempt that she flew back to the house in alarm.

Even the servants found that the opposite side of the villa demanded

their especial care. A truce was declared for the _colazione_, but

Armstrong devoured his repast in silence, showing no interest in the

animated conversation, and with scant apologies left the table long in

advance of the others to resume his task.

At five o'clock a dusty _vettura_ drove noisily into the driveway, and

from his point of vantage, lying on his back underneath the automobile,

Armstrong saw Mr. Ferdinand De Peyster alight. With a curse muttered,

not from any antipathy to his visitor, but simply on general principles,

he laboriously extricated himself from his position with a view to the

extension of hospitality. De Peyster saw the movement and hastily

approached.

Ferdinand De Peyster was a distinct individuality, which in a degree

explained the criticism which some of his friends passed upon him. His

foreign descent, though now tempered by two generations of American

influence, was probably responsible for the fact that he was "different

from other men." Always faultlessly dressed, his taste followed the

continental styles rather than those which other men about him were in

the habit of adopting, so while Americans in Florence were clad in

flannels, _neglige_ shirts, and white buckskins, De Peyster appeared at

the Villa Godilombra immaculate in the conventional lounging-coat,

tucked shirt and lavender gloves, with white spats over his

patent-leather shoes. There was more of a contrast between visitor and

guest at that moment than Armstrong realized as he emerged in his old

clothes, thoroughly soaked through with perspiration, and with his hands

and face grimy with oil and dirt.

De Peyster drew back instinctively as the full vision of Jack's figure

presented itself. "Comprenez vous francais?"

Armstrong stopped in his advance as he heard the question and noted the

superior tone in which it was delivered. Then the humor of the situation

appealed to him.

"Yes, sir," he replied, respectfully, "or English, if you prefer."

De Peyster's face brightened. "Ah! Mr. Armstrong brought you over with

him?" he remarked, becoming almost sociable.

"Yes, sir," Jack replied, truthfully. "Is there anything I can do for

you, sir?"

"I am Mr. De Peyster," said Ferdinand, with condescension--"a friend of

your master's in America. Is he at home this afternoon?"

"Yes, sir--"

Before Armstrong could continue De Peyster approached nearer to him and

lowered his voice. "I say--is there a Miss Thayer from America visiting

here just now?"

A quick movement on De Peyster's part deposited a franc in Jack's grimy

palm. Holding his hand in front of him, his astonished look alternated

between the piece of silver and his friend's face until he found himself

unable to keep up the farce.

"De Peyster, you are a fraud!" Armstrong laughed boisterously at the

look of dismay in Ferdinand's face as a realization came to him. "Do you

mean to tell me that the joys of a honeymoon and life in Italy have

wrought so many changes that you don't recognize me?"

"But can you blame me?" De Peyster joined in the merriment. "Run and get

some one to tell you how you look."

The sound of this unexpected hilarity reached the terrace, and Uncle

Peabody, flanked by both of the girls, came rushing out fearful lest

Jack's problem had resulted in temporary mental derangement. A glance at

the picture before them, however, explained the situation better than

words, and Helen hurried forward to greet her visitor while Inez

followed behind.

"Ferdy De Peyster--in the flesh!" cried Helen. "What does this mean, and

when did you reach Florence?"

Armstrong gave him no opportunity to reply. "He prefers to speak French,

Helen, and he is just throwing his money around."

Then turning to De Peyster and exhibiting his _pourboire_, he repeated,

"Comprenez vous francais?" while both men went off again into a paroxysm

of laughter.

"What is the joke?" Helen asked, looking from one to the other

completely mystified.

"It is a good one--and on me," replied De Peyster. "I took him for the

chauffeur, you know."

Helen looked at her husband. "Is it safe for me to laugh now, Jack?" she

asked. "I am glad something has happened to put you in good-humor. Can

you be induced to leave your work for the rest of the day and make

yourself presentable to join us in the garden?"

Armstrong cast a despairing glance at the machine.

"Of course," he said. "I shall be fresher in the morning, anyway, and I

am sure I can fix it up then."

"Nothing like knowing all about it yourself, Jack," Uncle Peabody

remarked, innocently. "These French machines are so simple!"

"You take the girls back to the garden," Armstrong replied,

emphatically, "and kindly devote your attention to your own theories, or

I will put you at work on the blamed thing yourself to-morrow."

De Peyster greeted Inez effusively, paying but little attention to Helen

and Uncle Peabody as they strolled back to the garden, while Jack

disappeared in-doors.

"Oh, I say!" he exclaimed as they reached the balustrade. "How did

Armstrong happen to find a place like this? Is it not simply splendid,

Inez?"

Inez Thayer resented something--she did not quite know what. She had

been expecting De Peyster's arrival daily, yet now that he had come she

was still unprepared. She could find no fault with his attentions except

that they had been too assiduous. Perhaps it was that, try as she could,

she had been quite unable to convince him that his devotion was useless.

He accepted each rebuff philosophically and bided his time.

Annetta skilfully arranged the chairs and laid the little table, placed,

as Helen had taught her, in a spot commanding the exquisite view of the

valley and San Miniato beyond. Luscious _fragole_, cooling _gelati_,

seducing little Italian _paste_, as only Helen's cook could make them,

and a refreshing Asti cup replaced the tea which the girls had decided

would be less acceptable on this particular day; and by the time all was

in readiness Armstrong joined them clothed in his proper mind and

raiment.

The conversation turned upon the voyage across.

"We had an awfully jolly crowd on board," said De Peyster. "There were

Emory and Eustis, who you say have just left you, and then there were

three charming married women who insisted on my playing bridge with them

every afternoon."

"They did not have to insist very hard, did they, Ferdy?" interrupted

Helen--"with your reputation for gallantry."

Ferdinand smiled complacently. "Making up a fourth at bridge comes under

the definition of 'first aid to the wounded,'" he replied, "but I did

not object at all to being the doctor. Their conversation was so clever,

you know."

"Clever conversation always helps good bridge," Armstrong interrupted,

dryly; but De Peyster was already deep in his story.

"One afternoon they had a discussion as to how large an allowance for

personal expenses would make each one perfectly happy,--funny subject,

wasn't it? Well, one of them said ten thousand a year would take care of

her troubles nicely; the second one was more modest and thought five

thousand would do,--but what do you think my partner said? She was a

demure little lady from Chicago and had only been married a year and a

half."

"Don't keep us in suspense, Ferdy," said Helen, as De Peyster yielded to

the humor of his recollections.

"Truly, it was awfully funny," he continued. "She looked rather

frightened when the conversation began, and when they urged her to set a

price she said, 'I would be perfectly satisfied if I could afford to

spend just what I am spending.'"

"She had a conscience--that is the only difference between her and the

other women," Armstrong commented.

"Perhaps," added Helen; "but I'll guarantee that in another year she

will be getting a divorce from her husband on the ground of

incompatibility of income."

"Then in the evenings," De Peyster went on, "the men got together in the

smoke-room, but I think we drank too much. I always felt uncomfortable

when I got up next morning."

"Another encouragement for my _magnum opus_!" exclaimed Uncle Peabody.

"I am going to invent a wine possessing such qualities that the more one

drinks of it the better he will feel next morning."

"If you succeed you will have clubdom at your feet," Armstrong replied,

while De Peyster feelingly nodded assent.

"Would you mind if I invited Inez to drive with me to-morrow, Helen?"

ventured Ferdinand, abruptly, looking anxiously at Miss Thayer. "I know

you honeymooners won't mind being left alone if I can persuade her."

"By all means, Ferdy--unless Inez has some other plans. Jack has been

making her ride his hobby ever since she arrived, and I have no doubt

she will be glad enough to escape us for a little breathing-spell."

"If you put it that way I shall certainly decline"--Inez failed to show

any great enthusiasm--"but otherwise I shall be very glad to go."

"Jack intends to put his automobile together to-morrow," Uncle Peabody

remarked, "so it will be just as well not to have any one outside the

family within hearing distance."

Armstrong tried to wither Uncle Peabody with a glance, but ran up

against a smiling face so beaming with good-nature that even real anger

would have been dispelled.

"For Helen's sake--" Jack began, but Uncle Peabody interrupted.

"For Helen's sake you will hasten the arrival of your chauffeur, if such

a thing be possible."

* * * * *

The following day was an eventful one. First of all, as if in response

to Uncle Peabody's exhortation, the chauffeur appeared. Mr. Cartwright

departed for the city soon after breakfast, to be gone all day, and by

the time the heat of the afternoon had subsided De Peyster drove up in

state to enforce the promise Inez had given him the afternoon before.

After watching them drive away, Helen slipped her hand through her

husband's arm and gently drew him with her into the garden. They walked

in silence, Helen's head resting against his shoulder, until they

reached her favorite vantage-spot, when she paused and looked smilingly

into his face.

"Jack dear," she said, quietly, "do you realize that this is almost the

first time we have really been by ourselves since we took that walk to

Fiesole?"

"But at least you have had an opportunity to show your villa to your

friends!"

"Don't joke, Jack--I am not in the mood for it this afternoon. I don't

know why, but I have been feeling very serious these last few days. Tell

me, dear--are you perfectly happy?"

Armstrong looked surprised. "Why, yes--perfectly happy. What a curious

notion!"

"I know it is, but humor me just this once. Are you as fond of me now as

you were that day at Fiesole?"

"You silly child!" Jack drew her to him and kissed her. "Whatever has

possessed you to-day?"

"I don't know, but you see I measure everything by that day at Fiesole.

I believe it was the happiest day I ever spent. Since then, somehow, I

have felt that we were not so near together. Of course, you have been

away a good deal at the library and looking up things with Inez, which

was just what I wanted you to do; and then we have had a good many here

to entertain, which was also what I wanted; but I can't help feeling

that you have not found here at home just what you should have found to

make you perfectly happy. Tell me, dear, have I been to blame?"

Armstrong paused as if weighing something heavily in his mind. "Perhaps

I have no right to go on with this work," he remarked, at length, "but

the only way to stop it would be to leave Florence."

"You know I don't mean that, Jack."

"I know you don't. I am speaking simply for myself."

He was again silent, and Helen hesitated to break in upon his reverie.

He seemed for the moment to be far away from her, and she felt an

intangible barrier between them.

"I could not make any one understand." Armstrong was speaking more to

himself than to her. "Ever since I left Florence years ago I have felt

something pulling me back, and ever since I have been here I have been

under influences which I can explain no more than I can resist. It must

be this, if anything, that you feel."

"I think I understand," Helen hastened to reassure him. "Sometimes when

I have been playing something on the piano I have the strangest

sensation come over me. I seem to lose my own individuality and to be

merged into another's. I feel impelled to play on, and an unspeakable

dread comes over me lest some one should try to stop me. Is it not

something like that which you feel?"

"Yes," replied Armstrong, "only a thousand times stronger than any one

could put in words."

"I know exactly what you mean--and there is nothing for which you need

blame yourself. You warned me before we left Boston that you had left

here a second personality. I know that you confidently expected your own

enthusiasm to excite my interest when once in the atmosphere. I wish

that it had, dear, but I fear I am hopelessly modern."

Armstrong looked at his wife intently, yet he gave no evidence that he

had heard her words.

"I have started on a great task at the library, Helen. The spirit of

work is on me, and I feel that I have a chance to prove myself one of

that glorious company. I may find myself unequal to the opportunity, but

if we stay here in Florence I cannot keep away from it. If my absence

from you makes you unhappy I must separate myself from these

associations."

"No, indeed," cried Helen. "I would not have you stop your work for

worlds. Even though I am unable to appreciate it, you know how

interested I am in anything which adds to your happiness--and I am so

proud of you, dear! That was one reason why I was glad that Inez could

spend a little time with us. She, at least, can help you."

"She can indeed," replied Armstrong, frankly, "and she has already. I

have never seen a girl with such natural intellectual gifts. Her

arguments are so logical, her reasoning so clear, that I find even her

disagreements most entertaining. What a pity she is not a man!"

"I knew you would like her," answered Helen. "Sometimes I think you

ought to have married a girl like her instead of me, but"--Helen looked

at him smilingly and drew closer to him--"but I am awfully glad that you

didn't, Jack!"

"What nonsense, Helen!" cried Armstrong, coming to himself and drawing

her to him. "Who is fishing now? I would ask no better chum than your

charming, brown-eyed friend, but I am quite content that I possess as

wife this sweet girl here in my arms who is trying to find a cloud in

this cloudless sky."

"Oh no, Jack." Helen straightened up reproachfully. "But I like to hear

you say these things--just as you did that day at Fiesole! And even if I

should find a cloud it would be sure to have a silver lining, wouldn't

it, dear?"

Armstrong smiled. "Yes, sweetheart, and, as Uncle Peabody says, 'all

you would have to do would be to turn it around lining side out.'"

VII

Inez Thayer found herself overwhelmed by a varied mingling of

conflicting emotions as she settled herself in the victoria, and

listened without remark to the enthusiastic and joyous monologue to

which her companion gave free rein. She felt herself absolutely

helpless, borne along resistlessly like a rudderless ship by a force

which she could neither control nor fully comprehend. She still longed

for a valid excuse to leave Florence, yet in her heart she questioned

whether she would now be strong enough to embrace the opportunity even

if it came. She had dreaded the certain appearance of De Peyster, yet

she had been eager to enter into the inevitable final discussion so that

the episode might be closed forever. She said to herself that she hated

Armstrong for the mastery which he unconsciously possessed over her, yet

every thought of him thrilled her with a delight which nothing in her

life had before given her. The color came to her cheeks even now, and De

Peyster, watching her intently, thought it was in response to his own

remark and felt encouraged.

The drive took them, as a matter of course, to the Cascine, where

fashionable Florence parades up and down the delightful avenues formed

by the pines and the ilexes. On this particular afternoon the heat

encouraged them to take refuge on the shadier side toward the mountains,

reserving the drive along the Arno until the brilliant coloring of the

setting sun should show them both Bellosguardo and the city itself in

their fullest glory. De Peyster was intoxicated by the enjoyment of his

environment, and seemed quite content to accept his companion's passive

submission to his mood. At length his exuberance of spirits became

mildly contagious, and Inez threw off her apprehensions and forgot the

dangers and perplexities which she felt surrounded her.

But her feeling of security was short-lived. De Peyster no sooner became

conscious of her change of manner than he seized it as a long-awaited

opportunity. Beginning where he had left off at the last attack, he

rehearsed the history of his affection from the day he had first met her

until the present moment. For the first time Inez experienced a sympathy

toward him rather than a sorrow for herself. He was, even with his

limitations, so deadly in earnest, his devotion was so unquestionable,

his very persistency was so unlike his other characteristics, seeming a

part of a stronger personality, that it forced her admiration. And yet

how far below the standard she had set!

"You have not believed me, Ferdinand, when I have told you over and over

again that what you ask is absolutely impossible." Inez spoke kindly but

very firmly. "I truly wish it might be otherwise, but it is kinder that

I make you understand it now instead of having this unhappiness for us

both continue indefinitely. I know you mean every word, but I say to you

now finally and irrevocably--it can never be."

De Peyster looked into her face searchingly. "You never said it like

that before, Inez."

"Yes, I have--not once, but many times, and in almost the same words."

"But it is not the words that count, Inez. I don't care how many times

you say it in the way you always have said it before. I expected to hear

it again. But this tone, Inez, this manner is quite different; and for

the first time I have a feeling that perhaps you do mean it after all."

"I do mean it, and I have meant it every time I have said it."

Inez was relentless, but she felt that this was the one time when

matters could be finally settled, and the carriage had already begun the

climb to Settignano.

De Peyster still gazed at her with uncertainty. Then a sudden light came

to him and showed in his face, mingling with the evident pain which the

thought brought him.

"I have it," he said, bending toward her to watch her expression more

intently; "I have it. You are in love with some one else!"

Inez felt her face burn with the suddenness of the accusation. She

hesitated, and in that moment's hesitation De Peyster had his answer.

Still he was not satisfied. He must hear the words spoken.

"You told me last time that there was no one else," he said,

reproachfully, "and I know you spoke the truth. Now there must be some

one, and if there is I am entitled to know it. So long as my love for

you cannot harm you, no power on earth can take it away from me; but if

there is another who has a better right than I, that is a different

matter. Tell me, Inez--I insist--do you love some one else?"

There was no retreat. Any denial of words would be useless, and it was

the only way to end things after all. She lifted her eyes to his and

spoke calmly, though the color had fled from her cheeks and her face was

deathly pale. "Yes, Ferdinand, you are entitled to know it. I do love

some one else, and I love him better than my life!"

"I knew it!" De Peyster exclaimed, dejectedly.

There was a long pause, during which he struggled bravely with himself.

"Tell me who it is," he said, at length. "Of course, this makes it

different."

Inez could not help admiring the unexpected strength.

"No, Ferdinand, I cannot. This is my secret, and you must not question

further."

"But it must be some one here, for you told me just before you sailed

that there was no one."

"Perhaps here--perhaps elsewhere. You must leave it there, Ferdinand. If

you care for me, as you say you do, I ask you to leave it there."

De Peyster bowed submissively and shared her evident desire for silence

during the few moments which remained of their drive.

Helen and Jack met them at the villa, and were greatly disappointed that

Ferdinand declined their pressing invitation to stay for supper in the

garden. A promise that he would take tea with them on the following

afternoon was all they could secure from him, and when Inez rushed

up-stairs promptly upon his departure Jack looked at Helen meaningly.

"She must have turned him down good and hard this time, eh?"

"Poor Ferdy!" Helen replied, sympathetically. "I had no idea he could

get so cut up over anything."

* * * * *

The automobile, even in the two days it had been a member of the

Armstrong family, completely demoralized the entire establishment. Jack

was beside himself with excitement and joy, his early experiments both

with chauffeur and car being eminently satisfactory. He contented

himself with short runs down to the city and back the first day after

his man had succeeded in putting the car into its normal condition, but

his impatience to start out again immediately after each return, even

though luncheon was most unceremoniously shortened, produced almost as

much dismay in the household as his bad temper while trying to

reconstruct the machine.

"I want you all to have a ride in it at the earliest possible moment,"

he explained; "but before I risk any one's neck but my own I must

satisfy myself that the car is all right and that the chauffeur knows

his business."

The only event which diverted Armstrong was the return to the villa of

Inez and De Peyster, for their evident discomforture caused him real

concern. On general principles he was interested in the outcome of the

obvious errand which had brought De Peyster to Florence, and beyond this

he had already come to look upon Miss Thayer as a most agreeable

companion and assistant whose happiness and equilibrium he regretted to

see disturbed.

After De Peyster's unceremonious departure and Inez' abrupt

disappearance, he and Helen strolled out into the garden, where the

table was already laid for supper.

"There is no use waiting for Inez," said Helen. "Poor child! It is a

shame to have her unhappy when we are so contented. But where is Uncle

Peabody?"

"I met him on the Lung' Arno and offered to take him home, but he said

he was bound for Olschki's. Trying to find out if Luigi Cornaro wrote

anything he had not discovered, he said."

"Perhaps he will come before we have finished. You sit there, Jack,

where you can watch the sunset behind San Miniato, and I will sit next

to you so that I can watch it, too."

Helen drew the light chair nearer, and smilingly looked up at him.

"There," she said. "Is this not cozy--just you and I?"

Armstrong smiled back into her radiant eyes with equal contentment.

"This is absolute perfection, but you don't imagine we can eat like

this, do you?"

"I don't feel a bit hungry," she replied, cheerfully, making no attempt

to move. "Uncle Peabody says we ought not to eat when we don't feel like

it, and I don't feel like it now."

"But what does Uncle Peabody say about not eating when you have been

knocking about in an automobile all day and have the appetite of a

horse?"

"Oh, you men!" cried Helen, straightening up with a pout. "I don't

believe there is a bit of sentiment in a man's make-up, anyhow.

Eat--eat--eat--" and she piled his plate high with generous portions

from every dish within reach.

Uncle Peabody's step upon the path gave warning of his approach.

"So I am in time after all," he said. "I was afraid I should be obliged

to eat my evening repast in solitary loneliness. But is this the way you

follow my precepts?" he continued, as his eye fell upon Armstrong's

plate. "Can't you take it on the instalment plan--or are you

anticipating forming a partnership with a stomach-pump?"

"It is my fault, uncle," replied Helen, contritely. "I can't make Jack

romantic, so I tried to stuff him to keep him good-natured. That is

always the next best thing with a man."

"Oh ho!" Uncle Peabody looked shocked as he drew a chair up to the

little table. "So I have come right into a family quarrel, have I?

Naughty, naughty, both of you!"

"I wish I could quarrel with him," said Helen, "but he is too agreeable,

even in his aggravating moods."

"What have you to say to that pretty speech, John Armstrong?" asked

Uncle Peabody.

"What can I say?" answered Jack, between mouth-fuls, "except that,

speaking for myself, I am always much more romantic when I am not

hungry. If Herself will indulge me for five minutes longer I will

promise to be as sentimental as the most fastidious could desire."

"I do not care for manufactured sentiment," replied Helen; "and it is

too late now anyway, for my own appetite has returned and my anger is

appeased."

"Miss Thayer evidently has not returned yet?" ventured Uncle Peabody,

interrogatively, as the supper progressed.

"Yes, she is up-stairs in tears, and Ferdy has gone away to throw

himself into the Arno," Helen replied.

"Dear me, dear me!" murmured Uncle Peabody. "What a pity! I am not sure

that I would have returned had I known that I should find so much

trouble."

"Now that you have had this much, I think I will let you in for the

rest," suggested Armstrong. "I will take you out to the garage after you

have finished."

"More trouble there?"

"Yes--punctured a tire on the way up the hill."

"And you never said a word about it!" cried Helen. "No wonder you did

not feel romantic!"

"Good! Peace is once more established, which is worth more than a new

tire. Come, my appetite is satisfied--suppose we all go out to the

garage."

Annetta interrupted their progress at the door.

"A gentleman to see the signora," she announced--"the same gentleman who

took the Signorina Thayer to ride this afternoon--and would the signora

see him alone?"

"Poor Ferdy," Helen sighed, aloud. "He wants me to intercede for him.

You go on, Jack, and perhaps I may join you later. Show Mr. De Peyster

out here, Annetta."

Ferdinand hardly waited to be ushered through the hallway. He was

visibly suffering as he approached Helen with outstretched hand.

"I am so sorry, Ferdy," was all she could say before he interrupted her.

"Forgive me, Helen, for coming to you before I have regained control of

myself; but I have made a sudden decision, and unless I carry it out at

once I won't be able to do it."

"A sudden decision, Ferdy?"

"Yes, I am leaving Florence on the night train for Paris; but I could

not go without seeing you again and leaving with you a message

for--Inez."

"The night train to-night? Surely you are not going away without seeing

Inez again?"

Helen's sympathy was strong in the face of his almost uncontrollable

emotion.

"Yes, to-night, Helen; and I shall never see her again unless she sends

for me."

"But what has happened to make things so hopeless now? She has refused

you before, Ferdy, and I have always admired your pluck that you refused

to give her up."

"But it is different now--there is a reason why I must give her up.

There was none before, except that she did not think she cared for me. I

was certain I could make her do that--in time. But now--"

"What is it now?" Her interest was sincere.

"You must know, Helen. Why do you pretend that you don't?"

"Why, what do you mean? I am not pretending. I know of nothing."

De Peyster was incredulous. "It's all right, Helen. We men would do the

same thing, I suppose, to protect another chap's secret; but it is

pretty rough on me, just the same."

Helen's mystification was complete. "Look here, Ferdy," she said; "this

has gone too far. Inez has evidently confided to you something which she

has never told me. I have not had a word with her since she returned,

and I know nothing of what has happened except what I have surmised."

"Do you mean to tell me that Inez has been here all this time as your

guest without your knowing that she has fallen in love with some one

over here?"

"Inez in love! Ferdy, you are crazy! Who is it, and where did she meet

him?"

"I don't know--she would not tell me, but it is some one she has met

over here."

"I don't believe a word of it. She must have said it to make you

understand that she could not marry you."

Ferdinand shook his head. "No. A girl could fool me on some things, I

suppose; but when she speaks as Inez spoke she means every word she

says. 'I do love some one else,' she said, 'and I love him better than

my life.' Do you think Inez would say that if she did not mean it,

Helen?"

Helen leaned against the arm of the settle. "I don't understand it,

Ferdy--I don't understand it."

"But I do, and I am not strong enough to see her again or to stay here

in Florence. I will not trouble her again unless she sends for

me--anything sent in care of Coutts will always reach me. Or after she

is married, and I am myself again, I would like to see her and

congratulate--him. Forgive me, Helen, I am all unstrung to-night.

Good-bye."

De Peyster was gone before Helen realized it. She sank upon the settle

and rested her face on her hand. Inez in love, and with some one she had

met in Italy! Who was it--when was it? She had come directly to the

villa upon her arrival. She had said that she had met no one who

interested her on the steamer. In Florence she had met no one otherwise

than casually. All her time had been spent either with her or with Jack.

Helen lifted her head suddenly. "With Jack," she repeated to herself.

She rose quickly and looked off into the distance. The last bright rays

were disappearing behind San Miniato. "I love him better than my life,"

Inez had said to Ferdinand. Helen grasped the railing of the balustrade

for support. "With Jack!" she repeated again. "Oh no, no, no--not that!"

she cried aloud--"not that!"

VIII

"How is the work at the library progressing?"

Helen asked her husband at breakfast a few mornings later.

"Famously," Armstrong replied, pleased that she had referred to the

subject.

"Is it nearly finished?"

"Finished?" Jack laughed indulgently. "You evidently don't realize what

a big thing I have undertaken. I find myself appalled by its

possibilities."

"Indeed." Uncle Peabody looked up surprised. "Does this mean that you

are likely to lengthen your stay in Florence beyond your original

plans?"

"No, I think not," Armstrong replied. "We have been here less than a

month now, and I ought to be able to put my material into shape during

the two months which remain--especially with the splendid assistance

Miss Thayer is giving me. I can add the finishing touches after we

return home, if necessary."

"Will it take as long as that?" asked Helen, her color mounting.

"Surely you are not counting upon me for any such length of time!"

exclaimed Inez, almost in the same breath. "My cousins are expecting me

to join them in Berlin any day now."

"You would not desert your post of duty?"

"I must follow the direction toward which it points."

"Just what is this 'big thing' you have undertaken?" interrupted Uncle

Peabody. "You forget that I have not yet been taken into your

confidence."

Armstrong turned to his questioner seriously. "I have really stumbled

upon something which has not been done before and which ought to have

been undertaken long ago. You see, Cerini has there at the library

hundreds of letters which belong to the Buonarroti archives. Many of

them were written by Michelangelo, and many more were written to him.

The correspondence is between him and men in all walks of life--popes,

kings, princes, tradesmen, and even some from the workmen in the Carrara

quarries."

"And you and Miss Thayer are translating these letters?" Uncle Peabody

anticipated.

"Yes; but that is not the work which most interests me, except

indirectly. Any number of volumes have been published upon the life and

manners and customs of every age before and since that in which

Michelangelo lived, yet practically nothing concerning this particular

period. The artistic importance of the epoch has been written up with

minute detail, but the intimate life of the people and its significance

seems to have been wholly overlooked--probably because it was

overshadowed. Very few of these letters have ever been printed, and they

ought to form the basis of a great work upon this subject. Cerini has

turned them over to me to see what I can do with them. At first I

started with the idea of going through everything myself, but that would

be a hopeless task unless we plan to live in Florence indefinitely. Now,

Miss Thayer reads over the letters and takes out the important data,

leaving me free to work on the book itself. We are really making

splendid progress, and I shall be bitterly disappointed if Miss Thayer

has to go away and leave me to finish it alone."

"I am sure Inez will stay as long as she can, Jack," Helen said,

quietly. "She knows how welcome she has been, but we must not urge her

beyond what she thinks is best."

She broke off suddenly; then, with an assumed nonchalance, said: "I

wonder if I could not help in some way and thus get the work completed

just that much sooner. Of course, I don't understand Italian, but

perhaps I could do some copying or something. Don't you think three

would accomplish more than two, Jack, even if one of them was a weak

sister?"

Helen looked over to her husband with obvious expectancy, but she could

not fail to notice the momentary hush.

"I know how ridiculous my proposition sounds," she continued, bravely,

"but I would really like to try."

"Why, of course," Armstrong replied, hastily. "Miss Thayer's suggestion

to leave and your willingness at last to come to my rescue have combined

to give me two unexpected shocks--one unpleasant, the other delightful.

Let me see. Miss Thayer and I have been developing a kind of team work,

so this means a little readjustment."

"Never mind, if it is not perfectly convenient." Helen made an effort to

appear indifferent.

"Of course it is convenient," Jack hastened to add, ashamed of his

hesitation. "You know how much I have wanted you to do this, and I am

perfectly delighted. I am sure it can be arranged and that you can help

us a great deal."

"I wish you knew Italian, Helen, so that you could take my place," added

Inez. "Then Mr. Armstrong would not accuse me of deserting my post of

duty."

"Not at all," protested Armstrong, impulsively. "Even then I could not

get along without your assistance. We can easily find something for

Helen to do which will help the work along and encourage her in her

budding enthusiasm. This is splendid! Helen interested at last in my

dusty old divinities! Perhaps we can even infect Uncle Peabody."

"Perhaps," assented Uncle Peabody; "but for the present I shall devote

myself to my own researches--even though your masterpiece is forced to

suffer thereby. But I will ride down with you as far as the Duomo."

No one in the automobile, unless it was the chauffeur, could help

feeling a certain tenseness in the situation as the car conveyed the

party to its destination. Helen's action was the result of a sudden

decision, quite at variance with all the conclusions at which she had

arrived during the wakeful hours of the preceding nights. Armstrong had

so long since given up all thought of having his wife co-operate with

him in this particular expression of himself, and the work upon which he

and Miss Thayer were engaged had settled down into so regular a routine,

that he was really disturbed by Helen's change of base, although he had

been entirely unwilling to admit it. Inez inwardly resented the

intrusion, at the same time blaming herself severely for her attitude;

and Uncle Peabody, who saw in the whole affair only a clever ruse on

Helen's part instigated by a tardily aroused jealousy, was in danger,

for the first time, of not knowing just what to do.

As a result of all these conflicting emotions, the efforts at

conversation during the ride would have seemed ludicrous had the

situation been less serious. Armstrong kept up a continuous and

irrelevant conversation into which each of the others joined weakly with

equal irrelevance. Each was trying to talk and think at the same time.

The car reached the Piazza del Duomo almost abruptly, as it seemed, and

Uncle Peabody alighted with considerable alacrity, waving a good-bye

which was mechanically acknowledged as the machine slowly moved into the

narrow Borgo San Lorenzo. At the library, Armstrong led the way through

the cloister and up the stone stairs to the little door where Maritelli

was this time waiting to give them entrance.

"I will take you to meet Cerini," said Armstrong.

"While I," interrupted Inez, "will seek out our table and get all in

readiness for our triple labors."

A gentle voice called "Avanti," in answer to Jack's tap upon the door of

Cerini's study, and the old man rose hastily as he saw a new figure by

Armstrong's side.

"My wife, padre." Jack smiled at the admiration in Cerini's face as he

took Helen's hand and raised it to his lips. "She could not longer

resist the magnet which draws us to you and to your treasures."

"Your wife," repeated the old man, looking from Helen to Armstrong. "I

have looked forward to this day when I might meet her here. But where is

your sister-worker? Surely she has not given up the splendid task which

she has so well begun?"

Helen flushed consciously at Cerini's praise of Inez. "No, father; Miss

Thayer is already at her work, and Mr. Armstrong is equally eager to

return to it. May I not stay a little while with you?"

"Have you time to show her some of the things here which we know and

love so well?" asked Armstrong.

"Most certainly."

He turned to Helen. "If you will accept my guidance we can let these

humanists resume their labors while we enjoy the accomplishments of

those who have gone before."

Armstrong left them, and Cerini conducted Helen through the library,

explaining to her the various objects of interest. It was quite apparent

to Helen that the old man was studying her minutely, and she felt ill at

ease in spite of his unfailing courtesy.

"You have known my husband for a long while, have you not?" Helen asked

as they passed from one case to another.

"Yes, indeed--even before he came to know himself."

"Then you must know him very well."

Helen smiled, but the old man was serious.

"Better than you know him, even though you are his wife. But see this

choir-book. It was illuminated by Lorenzo Monaco, teacher of Fra

Angelico. Can anything be more wonderful than these miniatures, in the

beauty of their line and color?"

Helen assented with a show of interest, but she was not thinking of the

blazoned page before her. The old man's words were burning in her heart.

Passing through a smaller room to reach Cerini's study, they came

suddenly to a corner lighted only by a small window where Armstrong and

Inez were at work. So intent were they that the approach of Helen and

the librarian had not been noticed. Cerini held up his hand warningly.

"Quiet!" he commanded, softly. "Let us not disturb them. I have never

seen two individualities cast in so identical a mould. One sometimes

sees it in two men, but rarely in a man and a woman."

Helen felt her breath come faster as she watched them for a moment

longer. Inez was pointing out something in the text of the original

letter which lay before them. Armstrong's head was bent, studying it

intently. Then Inez spoke, and her companion answered loud enough for

Helen to hear.

"Splendid! And to think that we are the first ones to put these facts

together!"

The expression of sheer joy upon her husband's face held Helen

spellbound, and Cerini was obliged to repeat his suggestion that they

return to his study by another route.

"It is just as you have seen it, day after day," said the librarian as

he closed the door quietly, and Helen seated herself in the Savonarola

chair beside his desk. "When I heard from him that he was to be married

I hoped that his wife might be able to enter into this joy of his life;

but, since that could not be, it is well that he has found a friend so

sympathetic."

Helen told herself that the old man could not intend deliberately to

wound her as he was doing.

"Why are you so sure that his wife cannot enter into it also?" she

asked, quietly.

Cerini looked at her in evident surprise. "Because what I have seen

during these weeks, and what you have seen to-day, can happen but once

in a lifetime. You are more beautiful than his companion, but you are

not so intellectual."

It was impossible to take offence at the old man's frankness because of

his absolute sincerity. He spoke of her beauty exactly as he spoke of

one of the magnificent bindings he had just shown her, and of Inez'

intellectuality as if it were the content of one of his priceless tomes.

"I came to the library to-day for the definite purpose of joining in

their work--" Helen began, hesitatingly.

"Surely not!" replied Cerini, emphatically. "You would not disturb these

labors which mean so much in the development of them both? It would mean

stopping them where they are."

"Could I not assist them at some point, even to a slight extent, and

participate in this development myself?"

Cerini was mildly indulgent at her lack of understanding. "My daughter,"

he said, kindly, "some one has written that it is no kindness to a

spider, no matter how gentle the touch, to aid it in the spinning of its

web. Any one can work at translating, truly--almost any one can write a

book--but few can accomplish what your husband and Miss Thayer are doing

now. The book they are engaged upon in itself is the least of value.

They do not themselves realize, as I do, that it is the influence of

this work upon their own characters which is making it a success. They

were humanists before they knew the meaning of the word. They come into

the highest expression of themselves here in this atmosphere. You were

born for other things, my daughter--perhaps far more important

things--but not for this."

"You cannot understand, father," Helen replied, desperately. "I am his

wife, and it is my place, rather than that of any other woman, to share

with him any development which affects his life as deeply as you say

this does. It must be so."

"Forgive me if I offend you, but this is not a matter which you or I can

settle. It is perhaps natural that I cannot understand your viewpoint.

The nature of my life and work gives me little knowledge of women; but

this is not a question of sex--it is the kinship of intellects. You are

his wife, and, as you say, it is your privilege to share with your

husband any development, but it must be along a path which you are able

to tread. I mean this in no unkind way, my daughter. I doubt not that

you, perhaps, in all other ways, are quite capable of doing so, but this

one single portion of his life it is quite impossible that you should

share."

Helen had no response. Her heart told her that all Cerini said was

literally true. She felt herself to be absolutely unfitted to understand

or to supplement that particular expression of her husband's character.

But the matter-of-fact suggestion of the librarian that Inez should

fulfil to him that which she, his wife, lacked, almost paralyzed her

power to think or speak. Cerini seemed instinctively to read what was

passing through her mind.

"You think me unreal, my daughter--you think me impractical. I may be

both. Here, within these old walls, I am not limited by the world's

conventions, so perhaps I disregard them more than is right. Those whom

I love signify nothing to me as to their personal appearance or their

families or their personalities except in so far as these attributes may

be expressions of themselves. Life to me would not be worth the living

if in debating whether or not I ought to do a certain thing I was

obliged to consider also what the world would think or what some other

person might think. Let me ask you a question: Was your motive in coming

here this morning the result of a desire to put yourself in touch with

the spirit of your husband's work, or was it to separate these two

persons in the labor they have undertaken?"

Cerini's question brought Helen to herself.

"If you are really free from the world's conventions," she responded,

quickly, "you will understand my answer. My husband is everything to me

that a wife could ask, and his happiness is the highest object my life

contains. Miss Thayer is the dearest friend I have, and my affection for

her is second only to the love I bear my husband. While this side of his

nature was not unknown to me, until we came to Florence--even until

to-day--I have never fully appreciated its intensity. Yet when I feel

that to a certain extent, at least, his welfare depends upon a

gratification of this expression, is it unnatural that I, his wife,

should wish to be the one person to experience that development with

him?"

"You did not feel this strong desire when you first came to Florence?"

"I did not understand it."

"Would your present comprehension have come at all if his companion had

been a man rather than a woman?"

Helen flushed. "You are not so free from the world's conventions as you

think."

"But you do not answer the question," the old man pursued, relentlessly.

"You think, then, that my desire is prompted by jealousy? Let us speak

frankly," continued Helen as Cerini held up his hand deprecatingly. "The

distinction in my own mind may be a fine one and difficult for another

to comprehend, but I can say truly that no jealous thought has entered

into any of my considerations. I could not love my husband and be

jealous of him at the same time. On the other hand, it is probably quite

true that were his companion a man I should not have recognized so

strongly the importance of joining him in this particular work."

Cerini rose quietly, and took from the bookcase near his desk a copy of

a modern classic.

"The author has expressed an idea here which I think explains your

position exactly." He turned the pages quickly. "See here," he said,

drawing closer to Helen and pointing to a paragraph marked with a double

score in the margin. "'No man objects to the admiration his wife

receives from his friends; it is the woman herself who makes the

trouble.' Now I suppose the reverse of that proposition is equally

true."

Helen smiled. "You mean that the reason I am not jealous of my husband

in this instance is because he has given me no occasion?"

"Exactly."

"That is perfectly true."

"But you fear that it may not always be true?"

Helen was no match for the old man in argument, yet she struggled to

meet him.

"Perhaps," she said; "there is always that danger. Why not avoid it by

making this other companionship unnecessary?"

"But suppose you yourself are not temperamentally fitted to gratify this

particular craving in your husband's life?" Cerini watched the effect of

his words upon his companion. She was silent for several moments before

she raised her eyes to his.

"I know that you are right," she answered, simply. "I have felt it

always, but my husband has insisted that in my case it was lack of

application rather than of temperament. I came here to-day to try the

experiment, and you have shown me that my own judgment is correct."

"It is correct," agreed Cerini, delighted by Helen's unexpected

acquiescence. "It was your husband's heart rather than his head which

led him astray in his advice. You have just shown me your intelligence

by coming so promptly to this conclusion; now you are going to manifest

your devotion to him by leaving him undisturbed in this work which he

has undertaken. It can only last during a limited period at best. It is

the expression of but one side of his nature. Before many weeks have

passed you and he will be returning to your great country into a

complexity of conditions where this experience will become only a

memory. These conditions will call to the surface the expression of his

other characteristics into which you can fully enter. By not interfering

with this character-building now going on, you, his wife, will later

reap rich returns."

A tap sounded on the door of the study.

"There is your husband now," said Cerini, taking Helen's hand. "Tell me

that you forgive me for my frankness."

Helen pressed his hand silently as he turned from her to admit

Armstrong.

"Here you are!" cried Jack, as he entered with Inez. "We became so

engrossed that I am ashamed to say I completely forgot our new convert."

"Your forgetfulness has given me the opportunity to become well

acquainted with your charming wife," replied Cerini. "Is your work

completed for the day?"

"Yes, but we shall be at it again to-morrow. You will come with us of

course?" he asked, turning to his wife.

"I am not quite sure, Jack," Helen replied. "Monsignor Cerini has

suggested to me another way in which I can help you, which may prove to

be equally important."

She turned to Inez with an unflinching smile. "Our friend has been

explaining to me the nature of what you and Jack are doing together. You

must certainly plan to stay on for a while longer. I am sure Jack could

never finish it without you."

IX

The human heart can play no more difficult role than to keep on with its

every-day monotonous pulsations, so far as the world sees, when in

reality every throb is a measured duration of infinite pain. Ten days

had passed since De Peyster had so unconsciously been the cause of

completely changing the even tenor of Helen's existence, and during this

time she had drifted helplessly in the deep waters of uncertainty. What

was the wise thing to do? Helen knew Inez too well to deceive herself

into thinking that what was said to Ferdinand had been simply an

expedient to accomplish his dismissal, and her observations since then

had confirmed her early convictions. Inez was in love with Jack. Jack

was obviously fond of her companionship. Their work in the library had

brought them constantly together, and at home an increasing proportion

of the time had been devoted to a consideration and discussion of the

various topics which had developed and into which Helen did not enter.

Yet there was nothing in all this which was not perfectly natural; in

fact, it was, as Helen said to herself, wholly the outcome of what she

had originally suggested.

Helen's convictions regarding Inez were confirmed, not by what her

friend did, but rather by the efforts she made to avoid doing certain

things. Never for an instant did Helen question Inez' loyalty to her,

and she could scarcely refrain from entering into the tremendous

struggle in which she saw her engaged. Each woman's heart was passing

through fire, and Helen felt a new and strange bond of sympathy between

her friend and herself because of their mutual suffering. But the

struggle must continue. Helen must come to some decision wiser than any

which had yet suggested itself to her before disclosing to any one, and

to Inez least of all, that she possessed any knowledge of the situation.

Fortunately, at this crisis, the automobile became the controlling

excitement. During the intervening days Jack had resisted the

temptation, devoting himself assiduously to his self-appointed task, and

satisfying himself with short excursions after his labors at the library

were over. Now he could resist no longer. The book was assuming definite

proportions, and, as he explained to himself and the others, the work

would be all the better for a little holiday. So it was that the

Armstrongs, with Miss Thayer and Uncle Peabody, made runs to Siena,

Padua, and to all the smaller towns less frequented by visitors and

consequently of greater interest. Miss Thayer forgot in the excitement

the experience she was passing through; Uncle Peabody forgot Luigi

Cornaro and the Japanese; Armstrong, for the time being, appeared

indifferent to the hitherto compelling interests at the library; and

Helen, at intervals, forgot her suffering and the heavy burden which lay

upon her heart in her feeling of helplessness. New sensations, in this

twentieth century, are rare, and the automobile is to be credited with

supplying many. The exhilaration, the abandon, which comes with the

utter annihilation of time and space, forces even those affairs of life

which previously had been thought important to become miserably

commonplace. The danger itself is not the least of the fascination.

"I would rather be killed once a week in an automobile," asserted Uncle

Peabody while the fever was on him, "than die the one ordinary death

allotted to man."

With the temporary cessation of the library work, there had been no

occasion for separate interests. This, Helen felt, was most fortunate,

as it gave her ample opportunity to arrive at her conclusions. It was

all her own fault, she repeated to herself over and over again. Had she

made an earlier effort to enter into Jack's interests, even though it

had proved her inability, matters need never have arrived at so serious

a pass. Now she was convinced that it was too late to become a part of

them; she had done an irreparable injury to Inez, whom she loved as a

sister, and had taken chances on disrupting her own and her husband's

domestic happiness.

"As Jack said, I have found a cloud in the cloudless sky," she

thought.--"And poor Inez!"

Thus the burden resolved itself into two parts--solicitude for Inez and

how best to undo the harm Helen felt she had wrought. Her first attempt

had proved a failure, and she could not see the next step. While the

motoring fever lasted there was nothing to do but to plan; for the

excitement was infectious, and one trip followed another in rapid

succession. Household regularity became conspicuous by its absence.

Meals were served at all hours and were rushed through with reckless

haste, entirely upsetting Uncle Peabody's theories.

"You treat your stomach like a trunk," he protested to Armstrong one

morning, "and you throw the food into it just about the way an average

man does his packing."

"But you finish your breakfast just as soon as any of us," was the

retort.

"Yes, but if you observe carefully you will note that I actually eat

about one-quarter as much as you do in the same given time. And what I

have eaten will satisfy me about four times as long, because I have

thoroughly masticated it and assimilated all the nourishing portions of

the food. When I think of the gymnastic performances your poor stomach

must go through in order to tear into shreds the chunks of food you have

bolted down I admit my sympathy is fully aroused."

"Sympathy is always grateful," Armstrong replied, unconvinced, "but

every moment we lose discussing nutrition is a moment taken off the

finest trip we have tried yet. The car is in splendid condition, the

weather is ideal, and Pisa awaits us at the other end of our excursion."

"So it is to be Pisa, is it?" Uncle Peabody arose. "Do you know, Jack, I

like you for the way you plan these charming rides, and that almost

makes up for your lack of judgment in some other directions. An ordinary

man would spend at least the day before in studying maps, asking advice,

and in making plans generally. You, on the contrary, wait until

breakfast is over, throw down your napkin, and then with a proper show

of impatience say, 'Why do you keep me waiting? The car is ready to take

us to the moon.' All this fits in exactly with my principles: it is the

unexpected which always brings satisfaction."

"Uncle's praise is distinctly a man's approval," Helen protested. "From

a woman's standpoint Jack's methods represent the acme of tyranny. No

inquiries as to where we prefer to be spirited, no suggestions that our

opinions are worth consulting, no suspicion that we are other than clay

in the potter's hands; simply, 'The machine is ready. Please hurry.'

Yes, we are coming," Helen hurriedly added, seeing Jack's impatience

over the bantering, "we are coming!"

Giuseppe, Annetta, and the cook were avowed enemies of the motor-car,

not only because of the effect it had produced upon the household

arrangements, but also because of the intrusion of the French chauffeur

which it had forced upon them. They would die rather than show the

slightest interest in it, yet on one pretext or another they never

allowed the machine to start out without regarding it with secret

admiration and respect. Giuseppe, on this particular morning, was

gathering roses on the terrace, Annetta was closing a shutter on the

veranda, while the cook's red face peered around the corner of the

villa. Giuseppe crossed himself as the engine started up, then jumped

and fell squarely into his rose-basket as the chauffeur maliciously

pressed the bulb, and the machine moved majestically past him, out of

the court-yard, and into the narrow road.

"I don't blame these people for resenting the invasion of motor-cars and

other evidences of modern progress," said Inez as they reached the

level; "it is all so out of keeping with everything around them and with

everything they have been brought up to regard as right and proper."

"But 'these people' represent only one portion of the Italians, Miss

Thayer," replied Uncle Peabody. "Italian civic life contains two great

contrasting factors--one practical, the other ideal. Each in its way is

proud of the past; the first thinks more of the present and the future,

while the second, opposed on principle to innovations, only accepts, and

then under protest, those which come from Italian sources. This car we

are riding in is of French manufacture. Were it Italian, you would find

that it would have been greeted with smiles instead of scowls just now.

And yet I like their patriotism."

"But it does seem a sacrilege for the wonderful old towers and walls

here in Florence to be torn down to make room for prosaic

twentieth-century trolley-cars," Helen added.

"And Mr. Armstrong says there is talk of a board road being built for

automobiles between Mestre and Venice. What will dear old Italy be when

'modern civilization' has finished with her?" Inez asked.

"From present tendencies," remarked Uncle Peabody, gravely, "I expect to

live to see the day when the Venetian gondola will be propelled by

gasolene; when the Leaning Tower of Pisa will either be straightened by

some enterprising American engineer or made to lean a bit more, so that

automobiles may make the ascent, even as the Colosseum at Rome is

already turned over to Buffalo Bill or some other descendant of Barnum's

circus for regular performances, including the pink lemonade and the

peanuts."

"Don't!" Inez cried. "It would be far better to go to the other extreme,

which Mr. Armstrong would like to see."

The road was level and smooth, now that the rough streets of the city

lay behind them, and there was nothing to think of until after reaching

Empoli. Armstrong had been running the machine, and he turned his head

just in time to hear Inez' last remark.

"I can imagine what the conversation is, even though I have not heard

much of it," he said, "and I am sure that I agree with Miss Thayer. How

about getting back to our work at the library to-morrow?" he added.

Inez flushed at the suddenness of the question, and Helen caught her

breath. The time for her decision, then, was near at hand.

"I am as eager as you are to resume it," replied Inez, her face lighting

with pleasure.

"Then it is all arranged," Armstrong said, decisively. "Helen and Uncle

Peabody may have the machine to-morrow, and we will start in again where

we left off."

The Arno winds around and about in a hundred curves between Florence and

Pisa, leaving the road for some little distance at times, but ever

coming back to it in flirtatious manner. The fields stretch away between

the river and the road in undulating green. Small hamlets like San

Romano, La Rotta, and Navacchio, and the more pretentious settlements of

Signa, Empoli, and Pontedera give variety to the ride and add by their

old-time strangeness to the beauties which Nature so bountifully

supplies. But the climax comes at the end of the journey, after crossing

the tracks at the very modern station and the bridge which spans the

Arno. Over the roofs of the quaint twelfth-century houses rise the

Cathedral and the Leaning Tower and the pillared dome of the Baptistry.

The motor-car was halted in front of the little doorway of the Hotel

Nettuno, where the host appeared with all his affability, offering

opportunities for removing the dust accumulated by the ride, and a

choice _colazione_ to be ready as soon as might be desired. Helen was

preoccupied during the preparations for luncheon, but Inez' excitement

over her first visit to Pisa, and Armstrong's eagerness to watch the

effect of the early impressions, saved her changed demeanor from

attracting any attention.

"It is hard to realize that this is the city of Ugolino and the Tower of

Hunger after this sumptuous repast," remarked Jack, lighting his

cigarette with much satisfaction as coffee was being served.

"Probably the 'Nettuno' was not in existence at that time," suggested

Uncle Peabody.

"Is this not where the wonderful echo is to be heard?" inquired Inez.

"Yes--at the Baptistry," Armstrong replied; "and you are sure to enjoy

it--the sacristan makes up such a funny face when he intones."

"The echo at Montecatini, I understand, is taking a long vacation,"

observed Uncle Peabody.

"How so?" inquired Inez, innocently.

"The regular echo was ill, and the sacristan failed to coach the new boy

properly. The visitor called, 'What is the hour?' and the echo came

back, 'Four o'clock'!"

Jack and Inez led the way from the hotel, through the narrow walled

streets and under the gateway to the Piazza del Duomo, where all the

splendor of the marvellous group of buildings burst upon them. Helen

pleaded fatigue and asked to be left in the Duomo while the others set

out to climb the Leaning Tower and to inspect the Campo Santo; so Uncle

Peabody insisted on staying with her. They sat down on one of the wooden

benches beneath the lamp of Galileo, and Helen rested her head upon her

hand. Uncle Peabody watched her curiously for a moment. Finally he took

her hand quietly in his. Helen started.

"I would do it if I were you, Helen," he said, deliberately.

"Do what?" she asked, surprised into confusion.

"Just what you were thinking of doing when I interrupted you."

"Do you know what I was thinking, then?"

"No." Uncle Peabody spoke in a very matter-of-fact way. "But I am sure

it is the right thing to do."

Helen looked at him steadily, uncertain of just how far he had surmised

her secret thought. There was nothing in the calm, unruffled expression

which gave her even an inkling as to whether her peculiar sensation was

caused by his intuition or her own self-consciousness. Then her gaze

relaxed, and she laughed half-heartedly.

"You have mislaid your divining-cap this time," Helen said at length.

"If you had really read my mind your advice would have been quite

different."

Uncle Peabody was undisturbed. "In that case you will exercise your

woman's prerogative and change it within the next twenty-four hours.

When that has taken place you will find that my advice fits it exactly."

"I wish I had your confidence, Uncle Peabody." Helen rose suddenly and

held out her hand to her companion. "Come, let us go into the sunlight,

where things look more cheerful."

Uncle Peabody watched the figure militant as Helen preceded him down

the broad aisle, past the small altars, and out into the air. He

recalled this same attitude when Helen had been a child, and he

remembered the determination and the strength of will which went with it

at that time. He had forgotten this characteristic in meeting his niece

grown to womanhood and in the midst of such apparently congenial

surroundings. Now he felt that he knew the occasion for its

reappearance.

Inez and Jack soon joined them, and together they returned to the hotel.

A few moments later the car was gliding back toward Florence again, in

the refreshing cool of the afternoon, with changed color effects to give

new impressions to the panorama of the morning. They were almost home

when Armstrong turned suddenly to Helen:

"How absolutely stupid of me!" he said, abruptly. "I met Phil Emory on

the Lung' Arno yesterday and asked him to take dinner with us to-night."

Armstrong looked at his watch. "We shall be just about in time, anyhow,

but I am sorry not to have told you about it."

X

When Helen Cartwright had accepted Phil Emory as escort for the Harvard

Class Day festivities, on the occasion of his graduation, every one had

considered the matter of their engagement as settled; that is to say,

every one except Helen and Emory. This view of the matter did not occur

to Helen, even as a remote possibility, and Phil Emory had absolute

knowledge to the contrary, since Helen herself had answered his question

very clearly, even though not satisfactorily, some months before this

event took place. But she liked him immensely none the less, and saw no

reason why she should not throw confetti at him from the circus-like

seats of the Stadium, or eat strawberries and ices with him and her

other friends at the various Class Day spreads. In fact, she saw every

reason for doing so, inasmuch as she thoroughly enjoyed it; and Emory

was proud enough to act as host under any conditions whatever.

After graduation Emory probably had as good a chance as any one until

Jack Armstrong entered the field. The younger man had become more and

more intense in his devotion, but when he found himself out-classed by

the force of Armstrong's attack he accepted his defeat generously and

philosophically. No one contributed more to the jollity of the wedding

breakfast or extended heartier congratulations to the bride and

bridegroom.

Emory's visit at the Villa Godilombra, when he first arrived in Italy,

was one of the pleasantest experiences of his whole trip thus far. Never

had he seen a more glorious spot, and never had he seen Helen so

radiantly beautiful. He had remarked to Eustis more than once during

their stay that an Italian background was the one thing needful to show

off Helen's charms to the greatest perfection. When he returned to

Florence, therefore, he determined to see her again, making his belated

duty call the excuse; so the fortunate meeting with Armstrong and the

invitation which resulted fitted in most agreeably with his plans.

The automobile passed Emory in his _vettura_ half-way up the hill.

"Good-bye, old chap! Must hurry, as we have company coming for dinner!"

cried Armstrong, gayly, as the machine glided past him, giving him only

a vision of waving hands before he became enveloped in the cloud of

dust. When he arrived at the villa he found Helen and Jack awaiting him

as if they had been at home all the afternoon.

"This is a pleasant surprise, Phil," said Helen, cordially. "Until Jack

told me you were in Florence I supposed you and Dick Eustis had at least

reached London by this time."

"No," Emory replied, as they walked into the garden; "I only went as far

north as Paris. Eustis continued on to London, and is there now, I

expect, but I ran across Ferdy De Peyster in Paris. He had a frightfully

sick turn, and I had to take care of him for a while."

"Ferdy was sick, you say?" Helen was eagerly interested. "You don't

mean dangerously so?"

"No--not as things turned out; but I will admit I was a bit anxious

about him for a time. He had been terribly cut up over something, and

then caught a beastly cold on his lungs, and I thought he was in for a

severe case of pneumonia. He was pretty sandy about it, and in a week he

came around all right. I took him over to Aix, where I left him, and

then I decided to sail home from Naples instead of Southampton."

"Did he tell you what the trouble was?" Helen was anxious to know how

confidential De Peyster had been.

"Oh, an _affaire de coeur_ he said; but he did not tell me who the

girl was. He spoke of his call on you and Miss Thayer, here, shortly

after we departed, but the poor chap was not very communicative."

"Forgive me for deserting you, Emory," interrupted Armstrong as he

approached them from the house, closely followed by Annetta bearing a

tray. "This is one part of the dinner which I never leave to any one

else. These Italians know a lot of things better than we do, but mixing

cocktails is not one of their long suits."

"By Jove! that is a grateful reward to a dusty throat!" said Emory,

replacing the glass on the tray.

"And now to dinner," announced Helen. "Annetta bids us enter."

Uncle Peabody and Miss Thayer joined them at the table.

"I must tell you, Mr. Cartwright," said Emory, after the greetings were

over, "that what you said about eating when I was here before made quite

an impression on me, and I have been trying your methods a little."

"Good for you!" cried Uncle Peabody.

"I really think I ought to make a confession," Emory continued. "I had

heard about your work and all that, but I had an idea that you were more

or less of a crank, and that your theories were the usual ones which go

with a new fad. But when you talked about understanding and running

properly one's own motive power it appealed to me as being sensible.

Then your idea that the appetite is given one to tell him what the

system needs sounded reasonable to me; and when you insisted that this

same appetite had a right to be consulted as to when enough fuel was on

board I woke up to a realization that I had not always been that

respectful to myself."

Uncle Peabody smiled genially. "Have you found the experiment very

disagreeable?"

"By no means," replied Emory, decidedly. "Of course, I started in on it

more as a joke than anything else, but I have been surprised to find how

much more I really enjoy my food. Why, there are flavors in a piece of

bread which I never discovered until I chewed it all to pieces."

"That is on the same principle exactly that a tea-taster or a

wine-taster discovers the real flavor of the particular variety he is

testing. That is one thing which gave me my idea. He sips a little and

then thoroughly mixes it with the saliva, and in that way tastes the

delicate aroma which the glutton never knows either in drink or food."

"How does the system work with the elaborate Continental _table d'hote_,

Mr. Emory?" queried Miss Thayer.

Uncle Peabody answered for him: "You became an object of suspicion to

the head-waiter, and the _garcon_ thought you were criticising the

food."

"Exactly," laughed Emory. "But, all joking aside, Mr. Cartwright, I

have become a confirmed disciple. I never felt so well, and I am eating

about half as much as I used to."

"This seems to be developing into an experience meeting," Armstrong

remarked. "Why don't you write out a testimonial for the gentleman?"

"I would gladly do so, but from what I hear he stands in no need of any

such document."

Emory turned to Uncle Peabody. "It is a case of being 'advertised by our

grateful friends,' is it not, Mr. Cartwright?"

"How long will you be in Florence, Phil?" asked Helen. "Are you just

passing through again, or is this where you make your visit to the City

of Flowers?"

"I have no definite plans. My steamer doesn't sail for a month, and I am

moving along as the wind blows me. Are the Sinclair girls still here?"

"No; they sailed for home last week."

"Why don't you stay in Florence for a while and help Helen exercise the

automobile?" suggested Armstrong. "Miss Thayer and I are working every

day at the library, and it will prevent her becoming lonesome."

Helen looked inquiringly at her husband. This suggestion from him, and

to Phil Emory of all men! The times had indeed altered! She saw that

Emory was observing her, and felt the necessity of relieving the

tension.

"You must not put it on that score, Jack," she said, quietly. "I am not

at all lonely, but I should be very glad to have Phil join us to-morrow.

What do you say, Phil?"

"I should like nothing better. But tell me about this work, Armstrong.

Are you really boning down to arduous labor on your honeymoon?"

"It is a bit out of the ordinary, is it not?" admitted Jack, uncertain

whether or not Emory's question contained a reproach. "I would not dare

do it with any one except Helen, but she understands the necessity. I

don't know when I shall get another chance."

"Jack is accomplishing wonders in his work," explained Helen, anxious to

have Emory feel her entire sympathy; "you must have him tell you about

it. In the mean time, while he is improving himself mentally, Uncle

Peabody and I are entering somewhat into the social frivolities of

Florence. To-morrow we are going to a reception to be given to the Count

of Turin and the Florentine Dante Society at the Villa Londi. Jack

scorns these functions, but you will be quite in your element. We will

take you with us."

"It is not that I 'scorn' these things, as you say, Helen," protested

Armstrong. "You give any one an entirely wrong idea. They are all right

enough in their own way, but I can get these at home. This chance at the

library, however, is one in a lifetime, and I feel that I must improve

it."

"Of course," replied Helen, "that is what I meant to say."

Emory glanced from one to the other quietly. "I shall be most happy to

go if you are quite sure I won't interfere with the plans you have

already made. You know I am not on speaking terms with Italian."

"You won't have to be," Uncle Peabody assured him. "These Italians speak

English so well that you will be ashamed of your ignorance. You will

have no difficulty in making yourself understood."

Helen was rebellious at heart that Jack should have suggested Emory to

relieve her loneliness. It was enough that he was willing to be away

from her so much without taking it for granted and referring to it in

such a matter-of-fact way. Inez as well came in for her share of the

resentment, her very silence during the discussion serving to aggravate

Helen's discomfiture. Helen deliberately turned the conversation.

"I can't help thinking of poor Ferdy, Phil. Have you heard from him

since you left him at Aix?"

"No, but I should have heard if all had not been going well."

"What is the matter with De Peyster?" asked Armstrong.

"Oh, you did not hear what Phil told me about him before dinner, Jack.

He has been very ill, and Phil took him over to Aix for a cure."

It was the first time De Peyster's name had been mentioned since his

abrupt departure, and Inez flushed deeply as she listened.

"What was the trouble, Emory?" asked Armstrong, innocently.

"He came pretty near having pneumonia," replied Emory. "He was hard hit

with a girl somewhere over here, and was thrown down, I suspect. Then he

grew careless and was a pretty sick chap when I ran across him in

Paris."

Armstrong had no idea of the result of his question. He glanced hastily

at Inez and gulped down half a glass of wine, nearly choking himself in

the process.

"There you go!" exclaimed Uncle Peabody, quite understanding the

situation and wishing to relieve the embarrassment. "You will drown

yourself one of these fine days if you don't listen to my teachings and

profit by Mr. Emory's example."

But Emory was quite unconscious of the delicate ground upon which he

trod. The days and nights he had spent with De Peyster were still

strongly impressed upon his mind.

"I thought you might know something about this, Helen," he continued,

"for Ferdy mentioned your name and Miss Thayer's several times while he

was delirious. I could not make out anything he said, he was so

incoherent. Later, when he began to improve, I asked him about it, but

he evidently did not care to talk. But how stupid I have been!" He broke

off suddenly and turned to Miss Thayer. "Here I have been sitting beside

you all this time and never once offered my congratulations!"

Inez drew back from the proffered hand. The color left her face as

suddenly as it had come. "What do you mean?" she stammered.

"Why, De Peyster told me you were engaged," Emory said, quite taken

aback. "Have I said something I ought not to? He said you told him so."

"Mr. De Peyster had no right to say that!" Inez cried, fiercely, almost

breaking into tears.

Emory was most contrite. "Ten thousand pardons," he apologized. "You

must forgive me, Miss Thayer. Ferdy never suggested that it was a secret

at all--and now I have given the whole thing away!"

Emory wished himself half-way across the Atlantic.

"I am very much annoyed," replied Inez, still struggling to contain

herself--"not with you, but with Mr. De Peyster."

"But she is not engaged," Armstrong insisted, with decision.

"I think Inez had better be left to settle that point herself, Jack,"

Helen interrupted, pointedly.

"Then why does she not settle it?"

"I will settle it." Inez sat up very straight in her chair, her tense

features making her face look drawn in its ashy paleness.

"Jack has no right to force you into any such position, Inez," Helen

protested, indignantly; "he is forgetting himself."

"De Peyster is responsible for the whole thing." Emory struggled to step

in between the clash of arms. "I recall the very words. 'Phil, old

chap,' he said, 'you remember Miss Thayer? She is engaged. She told me

she had found some one whom she loved better than her life.' Can you

blame me for making such a consummate ass of myself?"

Armstrong's intense interest had taken him too deeply into the affair

for him to heed Helen's protests.

"You never said anything of the kind, did you, Miss Thayer?"

"I am not engaged," replied Inez, very firmly, "and I cannot understand

why Mr. De Peyster should have put me in this uncomfortable position."

"Of course not," assented Armstrong, with evident satisfaction. "De

Peyster is a fool. I will tell him so the next time I see him."

"I think we had better change the subject," said Helen, rising, her

face flushed with indignation. "The methods of the Inquisition have no

place at a modern dinner-table."

XI

Inez Thayer had congratulated herself upon her success in keeping her

secret. Since her searching self-examination and the harrowing

experience during De Peyster's brief visit she had spent many hours

inwardly debating the proper steps to take in order to solve her

problem. She was certain that no one knew the real state of affairs, and

with this certainty the only danger lay in its effect upon herself. But

she knew all too well that this danger was indeed a real one. Day by day

her admiration for Armstrong increased, and with that admiration her

affection waxed stronger and stronger. Those hours together at the

library--when they were quite alone, when his face, in their joint

absorption in their work, almost touched hers, when his hand rested

unconsciously for a moment upon her own--were to her moments in the

Elysian Fields, and she quaffed deeply of the intoxicating draught. What

harm, she argued to herself, since her companion was oblivious to her

hidden sentiments--what disloyalty to her friend, since the pain must

all be hers? And the pain was hers already--why not revel in its ecstasy

while it lasted?

With her conscience partially eased by her labored conclusions, Inez

threw herself into a complete enjoyment of her work. Helen's attitude

toward her had not in any way altered, and she was still apparently

entirely agreeable to the arrangement. Her suggestion to join them in

their labors was the only evidence which Inez had seen that perhaps her

friend was becoming restless, even though not ready to raise any

objections; but when Helen herself gave up the idea, after her single

visit to the library, Inez was convinced that she had misunderstood her

motive. Nothing remained, therefore, but to accept her previous argument

that she was simply following the inexorable guidance of Fate, with

herself the only possible victim. It was uncomfortable, it was wearing,

but she could not, she repeated over and over again, remove herself from

the exquisite suffering of her surroundings until she was absolutely

obliged to do so.

The episode at the dinner-table completely shattered the structure she

had built, and its sudden demolition stunned her. This she vaguely

realized as she and Helen left the men at the table and walked to the

veranda for their coffee. Their departure was in itself an evidence of

new and strained conditions, as both Helen and Jack regarded the

coffee-and-cigar period as the best part of every dinner and a part to

be enjoyed together. Helen had not yet acquired the Continental

cigarette habit, but, as she had once expressed it, "Men are so

good-natured right after dinner, when they are stuffed, and so happy

when they are making silly little clouds of smoke!"

Inez hesitatingly passed her arm around her friend's waist, and when

Helen drew her closely to her she rested her head against her shoulder,

relaxing like a tired child.

"Who would have expected this outcome of such a happy day?" Inez

queried, sadly, as the two girls seated themselves upon the wicker

divan.

"Jack was a brute!" exclaimed Helen, almost savagely.

"It is all my own fault, Helen; but I could not tell them so in there."

Helen appeared astonished. "How do you mean? Are you really engaged,

after all?"

"No, no, Helen; but you see when Ferdy urged me so hard for an answer I

had to tell him something."

Inez glanced up at Helen to see how she took her explanation.

"So you told him you were engaged?"

"Not exactly that, but--"

"That you loved some one better than your life?"

Inez shrank a little as she answered. "Something like that," she

admitted.

"And it was not true?"

Inez laughed nervously. "What an absurd question, Helen! You know I have

seen almost no one since I came here."

"Except Jack," said Helen, impulsively.

Inez sprang to her feet. "What do you mean, Helen? You don't accuse me

of being in love with your husband, do you?"

Helen pulled her down beside her again. "Don't be tragic, dear," she

said, quietly. "I admit that the suggestion is unkind, after the display

Jack made of himself at the table. I am provoked with him myself."

"Helen,"--Inez spoke abruptly, after a moment's silence--"I think I

ought to leave Florence."

"Don't be absurd, Inez. You are worked up over this miserable affair,

but you will forget all about it in the morning--when you get back to

your work at the library."

"No; this time I really mean what I say. I ought to have gone when my

visit was up a fortnight ago; but you were so sweet in urging me to

stay, and the work had developed with such increasing interest, that I

have just stayed on and on."

"I am sorry if you regret having stayed, dear. It certainly seemed to be

for the best."

"But see what it has brought on you, Helen."

"I am not proud of my husband's behavior, I admit; but you have even

greater cause to feel annoyed than I."

Inez seemed to be drifting hopelessly in her attempt to find the right

thing to say.

"I have felt that I ought to go for a long time."

"A long time?" Helen echoed. "Has Jack behaved as badly as this before?"

"Not that; it is the library work which makes me feel so."

"I don't wonder you are getting tired of it."

"Tired of it! Oh, Helen, I wish you could get as much joy out of

anything as I do out of this work. Tired of it!" Inez laughed aloud at

the absurdity of the suggestion. Then she grew serious again. "I know I

ought to leave it, yet I cannot force myself to make the break."

"I don't think I understand," said Helen, quietly, watching intently the

struggle through which the girl was passing.

"I know you don't, and I don't believe I could make any one understand

it," replied Inez, helplessly.

"You talk about it in this mysterious way just as Jack does," continued

Helen. "There must be some sort of spell about it, for you both are

changed beings since your first visit to the library."

"Then you have noticed it?" Inez looked up anxiously.

"Of course I have noticed it," admitted Helen, frankly. "How could I

help it when you yourself feel it so strongly?"

"Do you blame me for it?"

"Why should I blame you, Inez? Is there any reason why I should blame

any one?"

"No, except that the work takes your husband away from you so much."

"But I can't hold you responsible for that, can I? It is the work which

draws you both, is it not--not each the other?"

Inez moved uneasily and withdrew her hand from Helen's lap. "Of course

it is the work," she answered, quietly; "but, frankly, would you not

rather have it discontinued?"

"No," replied Helen, without hesitation; "but I sincerely wish Jack

might be less completely absorbed by it. I have no intention of opposing

it, and I am willing to sacrifice much for its success, yet I see no

reason why it should so wholly deprive me of my husband."

"It has opened up an entirely new world for me." Inez seemed suddenly

obsessed by a reminiscent thought. Her troubled expression changed into

one of rapt ecstasy. Helen watched the transformation, deeply impressed

by the strange new light which she saw in the girl's eyes. "I must be

more impressionable than I supposed," she continued, "for it all seems

so real. I can see Michelangelo's face as I read his letters; I can see

his lips move, his expression change--I can even hear his voice. I have

watched him fashion the great David out of the discarded marble; I have

heard his discussions with Pope Julius and Pope Leo; I have witnessed

his struggle with Leonardo at the Palazzo Vecchio. The events come so

fast, and the letters give such minute information upon so many topics,

that I actually feel myself in the midst of it all. I know Vittoria

Colonna as well as Michelangelo ever did, and I know far better than he

why she refused to marry him. All these great characters, and others,

live and move and converse with us these mornings at the library." Inez

paused to get her breath. She was talking very fast. "I know it sounds

uncanny," she went on, "but there is something in the very atmosphere

which makes me forget who or what I am. Cerini comes and stands beside

us, rubbing his hands together and smiling, and yet we hardly notice

him. He is a part of it all. What he says seems no more real than the

conversations and the communions we have with the others who died

centuries ago. I realize how inexplicable all this must sound to you,

because I find myself absolutely unable to explain it to myself. It must

be a spell, as you say, but I have no strength to break it."

"It must be something," Helen admitted, gravely, "to affect both you and

Jack the same way. I wonder what it is?"

Inez paid no heed to the interrogation. "You should see your husband,

Helen, when he is at his work. You don't really know him as you see him

here."

Helen felt herself impressed even more strongly than she had been during

her visit to the library. Inez spoke with the same intensity and

conviction which at that time had overwhelmed her previously conceived

plans.

"Cerini said the same thing--" she began.

"Cerini is right," Inez interrupted. "Your husband is a god among them

all. He is not a mere student, searching for facts, but one of those

great spirits themselves, looking into their lives and their characters

with a power and an intimacy which only a contemporary and an equal

could do. Cerini says that his book will be a masterpiece--that it will

place him among the great _savants_ of his time. No such work has been

produced in years; and you will be so proud of him, Helen--so proud that

he belongs to you! Is it not worth the sacrifice?"

As her friend paused Helen bowed her head in silence. "So proud that he

belongs to you," Inez had just said. Did he belong to her--had he ever

belonged to her? The new light in Inez' eyes, the intensity of her

words, both convinced and controlled her. What was she, even though his

wife, to stand in the way of such a championship? What were the

conventions of commonplace domestic life in the presence of this

all-compelling genius? She felt her resentment against Jack become

unimportant. With such absorption it was but natural that he should not

act like other men.

The sound of voices in the hall brought both girls to themselves.

"Dare we come out?" asked Uncle Peabody, cautiously, pausing at the

door. "These back-sliders are very repentant, and I will vouch for their

good behavior."

"There is only one of us who requires forgiveness," added Armstrong,

frankly, advancing to the divan. "I owe you both an apology; first of

all to my wife, for not heeding her good advice, and then to my

'sister-worker,' as Cerini calls her, for adding to her discomfiture."

"If Inez will forgive you, I will cheerfully add my absolution," replied

Helen, forcing a smile.

"I was really afraid that I was going to lose my right-hand man,"

continued Armstrong by way of explanation, "and my work must then have

come to an abrupt conclusion."

"You give me altogether too much credit," replied Inez. "The work is

already so much a part of yourself that you could not drop it if you

lost a dozen 'sister-workers.'"

"It must never come to that, Jack," added Helen, seriously. "Inez will

surely stay until the book is completed, and I shall do what little I

can to help it to a glorious success."

"You are a sweet, sympathizing little wife." Armstrong placed his hand

affectionately upon her shoulder. "Your interest in it will be all that

I need to make it so."

Emory and Uncle Peabody instinctively glanced at each other, and for a

moment their eyes met. It was but an instant, yet in that brief exchange

each knew where the other stood.