poppies, which offered an attractive resting-place. Seating herself, she plucked several of the brilliant blossoms, and began to weave the stems together. At last she broke the silence.

“Why are you so quiet, Jack?”

“For three reasons,” he replied, promptly. “This walk has made me romantic, poetic, and hungry.”

Helen laughed heartily. “I am glad you added the third reason, for by that I know that you are mortal. This wonderful air and the marvellous view affect me exactly as a fairy-story used to, years ago. When I turned I fully expected to find a fairy prince beside me. You confess that you are romantic, which is becoming in a five-weeks’-old husband, but why poetic?”

“‘Poetry is but spoken painting,’” quoted Armstrong, smiling; “and I should be pleased indeed were I able to put on canvas the picture I now see before me.”

“Since you cannot do that, suppose you write a sonnet.”

Armstrong met her arch smile firmly. The girlish abandon under the influence of new surroundings awoke in him a side of his nature which he had not previously realized he possessed. Stooping, he gently held her face between his hands and looked deep into her responsive eyes before replying:

Helen made no reply for several moments after Armstrong ceased speaking. Then she held out her hand to him and looked up into his face.

“I never knew before that you were a real poet,” she said, quietly.

“I wish I were—and such a poet! My precious Petrarch, for whom you profess so little fondness, is responsible for that most splendid tribute ever paid to woman.”

Helen was incredulous.

“That sanctimonious old gentleman with the laurel leaves on his head and the very self-confident expression on his face?”

Armstrong nodded.

“Who spent all his life making love to another man’s wife from a safe distance?”

“Yes; this is one of his love-letters.”

“Then if I accept those lines you just repeated with so much feeling, I must be Laura?”

“But not another man’s wife.”

“I should have been if you had acted like that, Jack. Let me see how you look with a laurel wreath made of poppies.”

She drew his head down and tied the flowers about his forehead. Then, pushing him away from her, she clapped her hands with delight.

“There! if the noble Petrarch had looked like that, Madonna Laura could surely never have resisted him.”

“Had Madonna Laura resembled Madonna Helen, the worthy Petrarch would have had her in his arms before she had the chance,” laughed Armstrong, improving his opportunity as he spoke.

“Very gallant, Jack, but very improper.” Helen pursed her lips and looked up at him mischievously. “But let us forget your musty old antiquities and talk of the present. Do you realize that this is the end of our honeymoon?”

“No,” he replied, holding her more closely and laughing down at her; “it has only just begun.”

“Of course,” assented Helen, disengaging herself, “but to-morrow we are to exchange the very romantic titles of ‘bride’ and ‘bridegroom’ for the much more commonplace ‘host’ and ‘hostess.’”

“Oh! I am relieved that you are not going to divorce me at once.” Armstrong was amused at her seriousness. “But it was your idea to invite them to join us, was it not?”

“I know it was—and now I must make a confession to you. I thought that in five weeks we both would be glad enough to have some little break in our love-making. But I did not realize how rapidly five weeks could pass. Still”—Helen sighed—“what is the use of having a villa in Florence unless you can invite your friends to see it?”

“Then you have not become tired of your husband as soon as you thought you would?”

“Nor you of your wife?” Helen retorted, quickly. “Mamma suggested it first. She said that so long a wedding trip as we had planned was sure to end with one or both of us becoming hopelessly bored unless we introduced other characters into our Garden of Eden.”

“Did she say ‘Garden of Eden’? That family party included a serpent, if rumor be correct.”

The girl laughed.

“But there could not be one in ours, because I would never give you the chance to say, ‘The woman did it.’”

“Your mother forgets that we are exceptions.”

“She says there may be some difference in men, but that all husbands are alike.”

“Trite and to the point, as always with mamma.” Armstrong paused and smiled. “Well, I think even she will be satisfied with the success of her suggestion. How many do our guests number at present?”

Helen dropped the flower she was idly swinging and began to count upon her fingers.

“Let me see. There is Inez Thayer—I am glad that she could visit us, so that at last you can know her. It is strange enough that you should not have met her until the wedding. You cannot help liking each other, for she is interested in all those serious things you love so well. The girls used to make sport of our devotion at school because our dispositions are so unlike: she is thoughtful, while I am impulsive; she is carried away with anything which is deep and learned, while I, as you well know, have nothing more important in life than you and my music.”

Helen paused for a moment thoughtfully. “Sometimes I wish I could really interest myself in those ancient deities you worship.”

“You could if you only knew them as I do,” he urged, quietly. “The present is the evolution of the past, but it has been evolved so fast that many of the old-time treasures have been forgotten in the mad pace of every-day life.”

“But we can’t remember everything,” Helen replied; “there are not hours enough in the day. I can’t even find time to read our modern writers as much as I wish I could, and I think one ought to do that before going back to the ancients.”

“All modern literature is based upon what has gone before,” insisted Armstrong.

“Wait a moment.” Helen’s face again became thoughtful. “I have it!” she cried, triumphantly. “‘The gardens of Sicily are empty now, but the bees still fetch honey from the golden jars of Theocritus.’ That is what you mean, is it not? I remember that from something of Lowell’s I read at school.”

“Splendid!” he laughed, with delight. “Who dares to say that you are not in sympathy with the past?” He bent