nery,--"such a pleasant one, from my uncle Miguel, at
Florence, in Italy, you know. He is well, and quite rich, my father
says; they have restored to him his property that he thought was all
lost forever, and they have made him a chevalier again. But I am sure
my father will tell you all about it, for he said he did hope you
would come to-day; and he is so happy and so kind!"

"They have made him a chevalier again," I wondered. "Your uncle Miguel
is your father's brother, then, Ferdy. And did you ever see him?"

Before he could reply, Pintal entered, stepping smartly, his color
heightened with happiness, his eyes full of an extraordinary elation.

"Ah! my dear Doctor, I am rejoiced to find you here; I have been
wishing for you. See! your picture is finished. Tell me if you like
it."

"Indeed, a work of beauty, Pintal."

"To me, too, it never looked so well before; but I see things with
glad eyes to-day. I have much to tell you. Ferdy, your mother is
dining at the restaurant; go join her. And when you have finished your
dinner, ask her to take you to walk. Say that I am engaged. Would you
not like to walk, my boy, and see how fast the new streets spring up?
When you return, you can tell me of all you saw."

The boy turned up his lovely face to be kissed, and for a moment hung
fondly on his father's neck. The poor painter's lips quivered, and his
eyes winked quickly. Then the lad took his cap, and without another
word went forth.

"I am happy to-day, Doctor,--Heaven save the mark! My happiness is so
much more than my share, that I shall insist, will ye, nill ye, on
your sharing it with me. I have a heart to open to somebody, and you
are the very man. So, sit you down, and bear with my egotism, for I
have a little tale to tell you, of who I am and how I came here. The
story is not so commonplace but that your kindness will find, here and
there, an interesting passage in it.

"I have seen that that picture,"--indicating the one I have last
described,--"attracted your attention, and that you were prevented
from questioning me about it only by delicacy. That is my father's
likeness. He was of English birth, the younger son of a rich Liverpool
merchant. An impulsive, romantic, adventurous boy, seized early with a
passion for seeing the world, his unimaginative, worldly-wise father,
practical and severe, kept him within narrow, fretting bounds, and
imposed harsh restraints upon him. When he was but sixteen years old,