l breath of relief, and then hurried away as if the
earth burned under her feet. It was nearly five o'clock when she
reached the garden-gate of the villa; she paused for a moment to
collect her thoughts, to arrange her excuses, and to prepare for the
scolding which she knew was in store for her. She was just about to
turn the key when, to her horror, she saw her unknown companion
stepping out of a _fiacre_, and fearlessly approaching her.

"Surely, child, you didn't imagine you could run away from me in that
style," he said smilingly. "Our acquaintance is not to come to such an
untimely end. You must tell me your name, and, I was going to say,
where you live, but that key will relieve you from the latter
necessity. But, in order to prove to you that I am an honest fellow
and mean no harm to you, here is my card. My name is Henry Vincent, I
am an American, and--and--I should like to meet you again, if you have
no objection."

Annunciata was now seriously alarmed.

"Signore," she faltered, "I am an honest girl, and you must not speak
to me thus."

"By Jove! So am I an honest fellow, and no one need be ashamed of my
acquaintance. If you had anything to fear from me, do you suppose I
would offer you my card, and give you my name? But I _must_ meet you
again; if you don't give me the opportunity, I shall make my
opportunity myself, and that might get you into a scrape and be
unpleasant for both of us. Well, what do you say?"

The young girl stood for a while pondering. Her first impulse was to
cut short the interview by mentioning Cranbrook's name and revealing
her own relation to him. She had an idea that Cranbrook was a sort of
national character and that all Americans must have heard of him. A
second glance at Vincent's splendid attire, however, turned the scale
in his favor.

"About noon next Saturday," she said, scarcely audibly, "I shall be in
the Piazza del Fiori. My father will be there, too."

With a swift movement she tore the garden-gate open, slammed it behind
her and ran up the path toward the terrace.

V.

March, the very name of which makes a New Englander shiver, is a
glorious month in Rome. Then a warmer tone steals into the sky, the
clouds become airier and more buoyant in color and outline, and the
Sabine Mountains display, with the varying moods of the day, tints of
the most exquisite softness and delicacy. Cranbrook, from his lofty
hermitage, had an excellent opportunity to observe this e