which some scarlet lilies were flaming. Somehow such little tributes are more touching than the most elaborate decorations; Ibbetson found himself wondering who had placed them there, as he went toiling up his hill. The next moment he reached the entrance of the villa; iron gates standing open led into a rather untidy looking drive, arched over by tall trees of paradise and paulownias; and the shade of their broad leaves was so attractive a contrast to the dusty road, that he stood and looked in for a few minutes. There was an unreasonable attraction to him about the place. He smiled at himself when it struck him, and whistling to Cartouche, who had plunged among the trees, prepared to continue his tramp up the stony hill.

But Cartouche was not forthcoming. On the contrary, certain sounds were to be heard implying that he had met with a very congenial amusement within—a rustling among bushes, short sharp yelps, terrified gobblings, flutterings, then a girl’s cry. Jack whistled and called in vain, finally ran along the drive and found himself in a broad space before the villa, where two men armed with sticks were pursuing Cartouche, three or four young turkeys were flying helplessly about, and a girl stood holding another, apparently dead, in her hands. The instant she saw Ibbetson she stamped her foot, and cried out passionately in Italian—

“Take away that wicked, villainous dog, do you hear!”

Jack was struck dumb, not at the command, but at the face which was turned towards him. He had never in his life seen so beautiful a creature. The large brown eyes flashed reproachfully through their tears, the rounded and glowing cheek might have belonged to a Hebe, the indignant curl of the short upper lip only showed more strongly the beauty of its curves. She stood facing him, one hand holding the dead bird, the other pointing inexorably at Cartouche, who, aware of his misdeeds, skilfully avoided a blow aimed by one of the gardeners, and fled behind his master. Then her face changed slightly, and she looked down at the bird.

“You are not Italian,” she said still vehemently, but in English so pure as to excite the young man’s wonder more keenly, “and perhaps you did not know about it; but your dog should not come in and kill our turkeys. See, it is quite dead,” she added, holding it out; “and they were such dear little things, my sister and I had just brought them in a basket from the podere to show my mother.”

“I am very sorry, very sorry indeed,” said Ibbetson with great earnestness, “and very much ashamed that I did not keep a better look out.”

“If you were only passing by in the road, of course you could not help it,” said the girl, looking at him gravely; “but perhaps you will try to prevent his doing it again. I should be very much obliged if you would, for I cannot bear to see things hurt.”

“I will certainly flog him.”

There was a pause, and she took another survey, but this time it was of Cartouche, whom his master was holding.

“He does not seem a very fierce dog?” she said inquiringly.

“Quite the reverse,” said Ibbetson smiling. “He is little more than a puppy, and this mischief is only play, but still it is necessary he should be taught what he is not to do.”

Jack was looking very determined; Cartouche had the air of a victim. The girl glanced at the turkey which she still held, and again at the dog.

“Perhaps,” she said slowly, as if rather ashamed of herself, “you will not beat him? The turkey is dead, and I think he understands he is not to do it again. Indeed, Antonio shall carry the rest back to the farm. You will not beat him?”

“You have a right to say what shall be done.”

“Then I say that,” she said, brightening and clapping her hands. “Here is my sister, I must tell her about it.”

She ran to meet a younger girl who came down the steps of a terrace. Ibbetson stood where she had left him, feeling a little awkward, it must be confessed, and not knowing whether he was to go or stay, or into what strange place he had fallen. Were these people English or Italian? The girl’s type of beauty was Italian, but the English she spoke bore no trace of being acquired. The villa was square, large, and apparently out of repair; there was a tower which looked older than the rest of the building, and a handsome high-arched entrance. Plants were arranged in pyramids round vases or statues; there were lemon trees in great tubs, tiny oranges hanging between the leaves, tube roses scenting the air, glossy acanthuses. In the centre of the broad space in front of the house, where Jack was standing, was a pond with a fountain in its midst, which you might reach from the villa through a covered way matted over with banksia roses, and having seats at intervals under the cool shade. He had just time to notice all this when the two girls turned and joined him.

“This is my sister,” said his first acquaintance with a pretty little gesture of introduction, “but we do not know your name, or anything about you, except that you are English.”

“My name is Ibbetson, John Ibbetson,” said the young man laughing, and yet reddening slightly.

“You are quite right in supposing that I am English, but will you pardon me if I ask whether you can possibly be my country people?”

“I am,” said the younger girl shyly, and her sister turned upon her a reproachful look.

“And I, too,” she said quickly. “What makes you doubt it? English people often live abroad, as you must know. We are called Masters, my mother is in the house, and you will come in to see her, of course.”

Jack muttered something about his dress and the dust, but the girl shook her head imperatively.

“That does not matter in the least. We live here alone and see nobody, that is why I wish you to go in; I know it is not good for mamma to be so solitary, and have no one but us. Kitty and I often talk about it, but what can we do? There are only the gardeners, and old Andrea, the cook, and the people at the farm, and she does not care about the farm. We brought the turkeys back to-day just for a little amusement.”

“And I was so unfortunate as to be the cause of putting an end to it.”

“Yes,” said the girl gravely, “but never mind. Your coming to see her will be better, perhaps. This way, please.”

Ibbetson followed, half amused and half piqued. It was quite evident that he was only looked upon as a new and possible means of entertainment where other means were wanting, and yet the girl’s manner was so simple and frank that it was impossible to feel offended. And the brightness, the unconventionality of the scene charmed him. The air was full of wonderful gleaming lights, of sweet scents. Every line of the old villa seemed in harmony with the rich colouring about it; so were the sisters in their cool white dresses. It was all strange and yet familiar, and he followed, wondering what new features would presently disclose themselves, whether it was to end in a fairy tale or plainest English prose. Cartouche, fortunately still a little subdued by the consciousness of misdoing, was tied into a thicket of scarlet geraniums by the side of the entrance, then Kitty pushed the heavy door, and passing through a small marble-paved hall, opened another door leading into an immense salon, perhaps fifty feet long. To English eyes it looked but barely furnished, but it was cool and well shaded; two large windows opened on a terrace, and there, on a white marble table, under the shade of a