hing more than
that. Somewhere here," adds he, glancing around him, "I'd leave a
tribute to the grace of that dear lady who brought me back to life."

Don Sanchez assents with a bow to this proposal, but with a rueful
glance at the rich panels of the wall, as fearing this painter might be
as poor in talent as in his clothes--the latter reflecting discredit on
the former--and would disfigure the handsome walls with some rude daub.

"Ah!" cries Dario, casting his eye upon the ceiling, which was plastered
in the Italian mode and embellished with a poor design of cherubs and
clouds, "this ceiling is ill done. I could paint a fresco that would
less disgrace the room."

"You will need materials," says the Don, laying his purse upon the
table. "When you return with them, you may rely upon having our lady's
consent to your wishes."

The painter took the purse with a bow of acknowledgment, and no more
hesitation than one gentleman would show in receiving an obligation from
another, and presently left us.

"Shall we see him again, think ye, Senor?" I asked when we were left to
ourselves.

He nodded, but with such a reflective, sombre air, that I was impelled
to ask him if he lacked confidence in the story told us by the painter.

"His story may be true enough, but whether Signor Dario be an honest man
or not is another matter. A painter's but a man. A ruined gentleman will
accommodate his principles to circumstances" (with a side glance that
seemed to say, "I am a ruined gentleman")--"and my mind would be easier
if I knew by what curious accident a painter in need should find himself
in the heart of Kent, and why fixing on this house to seek employment he
should linger to the point of starvation before he can pluck up courage
to ask a simple question. We must keep our eyes open, Mr. Hopkins, and,"
adds he, dropping his voice, "our mouths shut."

I could not sleep that night for thinking of house-breakings and bloody
struggles for dear life; for 'tis a matter of common report that this
sort of robbers, ere they make attack, do contrive to get one of their
number into the house that he may learn where good goods are stowed,
which part is easiest of attack, etc. I know not whether these quakings
were shared by the Don, but certainly our misgivings never entered
Moll's little head. Nay, rather, her romantic disposition did lead her
(when she heard our narration) to conceive that this mysterious Dario
might be some wandering