his head down close to hers. “Would you not prefer to hold those ‘golden jars’ in your very hands, sweetheart, rather than merely read about them?”

“But, Jack, ‘the gardens of Sicily are empty now.’ Think how lonesome we should be.” Helen threw back her head and drew in a long breath of the exhilarating air.

Armstrong was still insistent. “I wish I could make you see it as I do,” he said. “The present of to-day is bound to be the past of to-morrow. What I want to do is to assimilate all that the past can give me, so that I may do my part, however small, toward giving it out again, made stronger and more effective because of its modern application, thus helping this present to become worthy of being considered by those who come after us.”

Helen looked up at him with undisguised admiration. “Oh, Jack, that sounds so wonderful, and I wish I could enter into it with you, but I simply cannot do it. Inez will be just the one. At school, as I told you, she went in for the classics and all that, while I—well, I was sent there to be ‘finished.’ Don’t look so disappointed, Jack. Truly I would if I could.”

“I shall not give you up yet,” he answered, smiling at Helen’s intensity, notwithstanding his genuine regret. “Tell me something more about Miss Thayer, since you insist upon her becoming your substitute.”

“Inez is a darling, in spite of her superiority,” Helen replied, gayly, “and I simply could not have been married without her for a bridesmaid. She would have sailed two weeks earlier except for our wedding. As it was, she came over with her cousins, and has been travelling with them until time to join us here at the villa.”

“De Peyster is still devoted, I judge?”

“Poor Ferdinand! His persistency has quite won my sympathy. He simply will not take ‘no’ for an answer, but travels back and forth between Boston and Philadelphia like any commercial traveller. Going over, he has a bunch of American Beauties under one arm and a box of bonbons under the other; returning, nothing but another refusal to add to those Inez has already given him.”

“He is not a bad sort of chap at all, when you get past his peculiarities,” Armstrong added.

“Ferdy is a splendid fellow, in his own way,” assented Helen, warmly, “and any girl might do a great deal worse than marry him; but he is not Inez’ style at all. I believe her trip to Europe is really to get away from him. I know he thinks that is the reason, and is simply inconsolable.”

“De Peyster would be a good match,” remarked Armstrong, thoughtfully. “He has plenty of money and plenty of leisure, and he ought to be able to make his wife fairly comfortable.”

“But that is not what Inez wants. She has great ideas about affinities, and Ferdy does not answer to the description.”

“Then there is your uncle Peabody,” Armstrong prompted, helpfully.

“Yes, there is dear Uncle Peabody. You will enjoy him immensely.”

“Does he live up to his reputation of a man with an ‘ism’?”

“Oh, Jack! Some one has been maligning him to you. That is because he is the only original member of our family, and really the most useful.”

“Indeed! If that is your estimate of him, it shall also be mine. I was prepared for a well-developed specimen of the genus crank.”

“Wait till you see him.” Helen laughed at her husband’s mental picture. “He is a crank, in a way, but he is a mighty cheerful one to have around.”

“He believes in making an air-plant of one’s self, in order to help him forget his other troubles, does he not?”

“Who has been making fun of dear Uncle Peabody? I must have him tell you about his work himself. It is true that he believes most people overeat, and it is true that he is devoting his life and his fortune to finding out what the basis of proper nutrition really is; but as for starving—wait till you see him!”

“You have relieved me considerably,” Armstrong replied, gravely. “From what I had heard of your uncle I had expected nothing less than to be made an example of for the sake of science—and you have already discovered that I am really partial to my meals.”

“You can be just as partial to them as ever, Jack. But, seriously, I know you will find him most interesting, and I shall be surprised if his theories do not give you something new to think about.”

“His theories will not do for me,” said Armstrong, assuming a position of mock importance, “for I have always been taught that a touch of indigestion is absolutely essential to genius.”

“Splendid!” cried Helen. “That will be just the argument to start the conversation at our first dinner and keep it from being commonplace. I have been trying to think how we could get Uncle Peabody interested. It is only that first dinner which I dread, and you have helped me out nobly.”

“That makes two,” suggested Jack.

“Yes, two. Then there are the Sinclair girls, who have been studying here in Florence for nearly a year. They will come up from their pension. That makes four—and the others, you know, are Phil Emory and Dick Eustis, who arrive in Florence from Rome to-night. I don’t need to tell you anything about them.”

“There is a whole lot you might tell me about Emory if you chose.”

Armstrong looked slyly into his wife’s face.

“Shame on you, Jack!” Helen cried, flushing; “the idea of being jealous on your wedding trip!”

“I am not jealous now.” He emphasized the last word.

“Well, I am glad you are over it.”

“It looks like a very jolly party,” he hastened to add, seeing that Helen’s annoyance was genuine, “and I can see where we become old married folk to-morrow. You and Uncle Peabody will act as chaperons, I presume, Phil and Dick will look after the Sinclair girls, while I am to devote myself to Inez Thayer. Is that the programme?”

“Exactly. I am so anxious that Inez should appreciate what a talented husband I have. She has heard great stories about your learning and erudition, so now you must live up to the picture.”

“Then suppose we start for home if you are quite rested. It is plainly incumbent on me to make sure that my knowledge of the classics proves equal to the test.”

II

The Armstrongs had installed themselves in the Villa Godilombra, near Settignano. The date for the wedding was no sooner settled than Jack cabled to secure what had always seemed to him to be the most glorious location around Florence. Years before, his favorite tramp had been out of the ancient city through the Porta alla Croce to La Mensola, whence he delighted to ascend the hill of Settignano. Every villa possessed a peculiar fascination for him. The “Poggio Gherardo”—the “Primo Palagio del Refugio” of the Decameron—made Boccaccio real to him. The Villa Buonarroti, whither Michelangelo was sent as a baby, after the Italian custom, to be nursed in a family of scarpellini, always attracted him, and times without number he had stood admiringly before the wall in one of the rooms, gazing at the figure of the satyr which the infant prodigy drew with a burning stick taken from the fire. In those days he had been seized with a secret yearning to become an