oss-legged on a bench, in a real Alma Tadema attitude, filled the
dangerous pause with:

"It was in the days of our Lord 1348 that there happened in Florence,
the finest city in Italy--"

And the Violinist, who was leaning against a tree, touched an
imaginary mandolin, concluding: "A most terrible plague."

The Critic leaped to his feet.

"A corking idea," he cried.

"Mine, mine own," replied the Sculptor. "I propose that what those
who, in the days of the terrible plague, took refuge at the Villa
Palmieri, did to pass away the time, we, who are watching the war
approach--as our host says it will--do here. Let us, instead of
disputing, each tell a story after dinner--to calm our nerves,--or
otherwise."

At first every one hooted.

"I could never tell a story," objected the Divorcee.

"Of course you can," declared the Journalist. "Everybody in the world
has one story to tell."

"Sure," exclaimed the Lawyer. "No embargo on subjects?"

"I don't know," smiled the Doctor. "There is always the Youngster."

"You go to blazes," was the Youngster's response, and he added: "No
war stories. Draw that line."

"Then," laughed the Doctor, "let's make it tales of our own, our
native land." And there the matter rested. Only, when we separated
that night, each of us carried a sealed envelope containing a
numbered slip, which decided the question of precedence, and it was
agreed that no one but the story-teller should know who was to be the
evening's entertainer, until story-telling hour arrived with the
coffee and cigarettes.

I

THE YOUNGSTER'S STORY

IT HAPPENED AT MIDNIGHT

THE TALE OF A BRIDE'S NEW HOME

The daytimes were not ever very bad. Short-handed in the pretty
garden, every one did a little work. The Lawyer was passionately fond
of flowers, and the Youngster did most of the errands. The Sculptor
had found some clay, and loved to surprise us at night with a new
centre piece for the table, and the Divorcee spent most of her time
tending Angele's baby, while the Doctor and the Nurse were eternally
fussing over new kinds of bandages and if ever we got together, it was
usually for a little reading aloud at tea-time, or a little music. The
spirit of discussion seemed to keep as far away before the lights were
up as did the spirit of war, and nothing could be farther than that
_appeared_.

The next day we were unusually quiet.

Most of us kept in our rooms in the afternoon. There were those
storie