y were hung. The prince led the ladies to the southern end.
Valentine saw before her a magnificent painting--tall forest trees,
whose thick branches were interwoven, every green leaf distinct and
clear; she saw the mellow light that fell through them, the milk-white
palfrey and the jeweled harness, the handsome knight who rode near; and
then she saw her own face, bright, smiling, glowing with beauty, bright
in innocence, sweet in purity. Valentine stared in astonishment, and
her companion smiled.

"There can be no doubt about the resemblance," said the countess. "The
artist has made you Queen Guinevere, Miss Charteris."

"Yes," said Valentine, wonderingly; "it is my own face. How came it
there? Who is the artist?"

"His name is Ronald Thorne," replied the countess. "There is quite a
romance about him."

The countess saw Miss Charteris grow pale and silent.

"Have you ever seen him?" inquired the countess. "Do you know him?"

"Yes," said Valentine, "my family and his have been on intimate terms
for years. I knew that he was in Italy with his wife."

"Ah," rejoined the countess, eagerly, "then perhaps you know all about
his marriage? Who was Mrs. Thorne? Why did he quarrel with his
father? Do tell us, Miss Charteris."

"Nay," said Valentine; "if Mrs. Thorne has any secrets, I shall not
reveal them. I must tell mamma they are in Florence. We must call and
see them."

"I was fond of Mrs. Thorne once," said the countess, plaintively, "but
really there is nothing in her."

"There must be something both estimable and lovable," replied Valentine
quickly, "or Mr. Thorne would never have married her."

Prince di Borgesi smiled approval of the young lady's reply.

"You admire my picture, Miss Charteris?" he asked.

"The more so because it is the work of an old friend," said Valentine;
and again the prince admired the grace of her words.

"Any other woman in her place," he thought, "would have blushed and
coquetted. How charming she is!"

From that moment Prince di Borgezi resolved to win Valentine if he
could.

Lady Charteris was half pleased, half sorry, to hear that Ronald was in
Florence. No one deplored his rash, foolish marriage more than she
did. She thought Lord Earle stern and cruel; she pitied the young man
she had once liked so well, yet for all that she did not feel inclined
to renew the acquaintance. When Valentine asked her to drive next
morning to the little villa on the banks of t