t."

"Dance?" I queried. "What dance, and where?"

"Well, Madame Didier, that jolly little furbelowed Frenchwoman with
whom I was driving just now, has got up a regular party to-night--"

"Hans Breitmann gib a barty?" I interposed, with a mock solemn air of
inquiry.

Amy laughed.

"Well, yes, it MAY be that kind of thing, for all I know to the
contrary. Anyhow, she's hired the band and ordered a right-down elegant
supper. Half the folks in the hotel are going, and a lot of outsiders
have got invitations. She asked if we couldn't come--myself, the
Colonel, and you. I said I could answer for myself and the Colonel, but
not for you, as you were an invalid. But if you keep on looking as you
do at present, no one will believe that there's anything the matter
with you.--Tea, Alphonse!"

This to a polite waiter, who was our special attendant, and who just
then knocked at the door to know "madame's" orders.

Utterly disbelieving what my friend said in regard to my improved
appearance, I rose from the bed and went to the dressing-table to look
in the mirror and judge for myself. I almost recoiled from my own
reflection, so great was my surprise. The heavy marks under my eyes,
the lines of pain that had been for months deepening in my forehead,
the plaintive droop of the mouth that had given me such an air of
ill-health and anxiety--all were gone as if by magic. I saw a
rose-tinted complexion, a pair of laughing, lustrous eyes, and,
altogether, such a happy, mirthful young face smiled back at me, that I
half doubted whether it was indeed myself I saw.

"There now!" cried Amy in triumph, watching me as I pushed my
clustering hair from my brows, and examined myself more intently. "Did
I not tell you so? The change in you is marvellous! I know what it is.
You have been getting better unconsciously to yourself in this lovely
air and scene, and the long afternoon sleep you've just had has
completed the cure."

I smiled at her enthusiasm, but was forced to admit that she was right
as far as my actual looks went. No one would believe that I was, or
ever had been, ill. In silence I loosened my hair and began to brush it
and put it in order before the mirror, and as I did so my thoughts were
very busy. I remembered distinctly all that had happened in the studio
of Raffaello Cellini, and still more distinctly was I able to recall
every detail of the three dreams that had visited me in my slumber. The
NAME, too, that had been th