old."

She laid the dress on the bed, and in doing so, perceived the
antique-looking book with the silver clasps which I had left there.

"What's this?" she asked, turning it round to discover its name.
"'Letters of a Dead Musician!' What a shivery title! Is it morbid
reading?"

"Not at all," I replied, as I leaned comfortably back in an easy-chair
and sipped my tea. "It is a very scholarly, poetical, and picturesque
work. Signor Cellini lent it to me; the author was a friend of his."

Amy looked at me with a knowing and half-serious expression.

"Say now--take care, take care! Aren't you and Cellini getting to be
rather particular friends--something a little beyond the Platonic, eh?"

This notion struck me as so absurd that I laughed heartily. Then,
without pausing for one instant to think what I was saying, I answered
with amazing readiness and frankness, considering that I really knew
nothing about it:

"Why, my dear, Raffaello Cellini is betrothed, and he is a most devoted
lover."

A moment after I had uttered this assertion I was surprised at myself.
What authority had I for saying that Cellini was betrothed? What did I
know about it? Confused, I endeavoured to find some means of retracting
this unfounded and rash remark, but no words of explanation would come
to my lips that had been so ready and primed to deliver what might be,
for all I knew, a falsehood. Amy did not perceive my embarrassment. She
was pleased and interested at the idea of Cellini's being in love.

"Really!" she exclaimed, "it makes him a more romantic character than
ever! Fancy his telling you that he was betrothed! How delightful! I
must ask him all about his chosen fair one. But I'm positively thankful
it isn't you, for I'm sure he's just a little bit off his head. Even
this book he has lent you looks like a wizard's property;" and she
fluttered the leaves of the "Dead Musician's" volume, turning them
rapidly over in search of something attractive. Suddenly she paused and
cried out: "Why, this is right-down awful! He must have been a regular
madman! Just listen!" and she read aloud:

"'How mighty are the Kingdoms of the Air! How vast they are--how
densely populated--how glorious are their destinies--how all-powerful
and wise are their inhabitants! They possess everlasting health and
beauty--their movements are music--their glances are light--they cannot
err in their laws or judgments, for their existence is love. Thrones,
principal