many shapely spires alone keeping watch,-alone striving to pierce the mystery of the night; while the Arno, at this distance a mere glistening thread, flowed placidly on, content not to know that which is unrevealed. The view is one of

which I never weary. Too far away, even in the searching light of the sun, to display any unattractive features, it remains always Florence, the ideal, by day,-Firenze, the fairy city, by night.

I did not wonder when Bassanio motioned me to a seat in this particular part of the garden. For a time naught but the soft splashing of the fountain near by, and the sleepy murmur of the night insects, broke the stillness, and then—

"Here sat the gentle Margherita," said Bassanio, “and here might now be sitting but for the chatter of a foolish maid. Since that day, now twenty years past, Bassanio's lips have been sealed, and none have heard why Margherita left Grazzi, or how she found her way down to the Florence she loved, and entered singing-the Florence where that song was hushed for ever. But Bassanio knows why, even now, the candle burns brightly in the passage beneath the Fountain of Nymphs. Altro!

Eighteen times for Margherita had the blue lilies blossomed in yonder field, and the little maiden was as fair and as pure as they. Count Marcello, her father, was ever light of heart when her merry laughter rang through the corridors, and smiled when of a morning she crept unheard behind him as he sat at his morning meal, and dropped a pink rose into the melon on his plate.

"The death of the good contessa had left these two alone in the world, and because they had only themselves, they thought the more of each other. It was for the sake of having her to himself that the count now spent each year at Villa Grazzi, and no more went to his palazzo in Venice when the season changed. Margherita was, therefore, much in solitude, for the count entertained no guests. Save her father and the women of the villa, she had none for company but Bassanio, and the creatures and flowers of the garden. When but a child she would say:

"You are good to my flowers, Bassanio, and they love you. So, also, Margherita loves you.' Then she would beg a

Bassanio's rough coat, and would tease her for her fondness for flowers that talked not, and for an old man's idle stories.

"But the blossoms do speak to me, my father,' she would reply. Bassanio will tell the wonderful things they say, for he knows them all, and they love him.'

"Then would Count Marcello shake his head, and, laughing, pass on, whispering as he went:

"Take ever such faithful care of the child, Bassanio, and thou shalt have thy full reward.' Yet did the count know, as well as I myself, that the loving watchfulness of Bassanio asked no reward but to be of service to the maiden he loved as his own.

"So lived Margherita with the flowers and with the creatures of the garden, and they taught her their ways. The blossoms gave her of their sweetness and grace, and from them she learned to fashion her gowns.

"To-day I am in blue for the lilies. Will they not like it?' she would say. And again : "Now I am a scarlet poppy, Bassanio mio,' and lightly would she dance down the paths, as bright as any blossom that lifted its head in the long rows. Sometimes it were a violet she copied, and quietly, in her purple gown, would she follow me about, or sit in this her favorite spot, looking with almost longing eyes down to the city she had never entered. Next day the mood would change, and she would meet me with her head in air, and would gather her brilliant skirts about her mockingly, saying: 'Behold your proud Lady Cyclamen!' and even while Bassanio bent low in homage, would she forget her dignity to dart after a butterfly playfellow.

"After all, it was the creatures that taught her most. Margherita had heard the women sing, but she cared naught for their songs. The birds were her masters, and smaller creatures gave her their gifts. In his lifetime Bassanio has heard many voices, but not one like that of Margherita, for men of the world cannot teach what she found in the garden of Grazzi. From the birds she learned how to trill, and to send forth clear, high tones as pure as theirs; and when she sang she lifted her head as does the bird itself. It was the locust that showed her how to begin a long note softly, and to come crescendo, to the full tone, and decrescendo, to a mere breath

their knowledge, and from the grille, the crickets that sing in the moonlight, she learned rhythm, and patience to try over and over without tiring what she already knew.

"Often, in the sunny noon, would she mournfully cry, ' Pa-ve, pa-ve,' and old Domenico, the peacock, would strut down the terrace spreading his tail, and echoing her call; or, when the warm dusk had stolen over the garden, would Margherita make the cry of the lonesome owl, and each time was it answered by that sad little bird itself, off in a far-away cypress-tree.

Margherita had words to all of her songs, but they were not such as those the women of the villa sang. No; Margherita sang in her own tongue what the creatures sing in theirs. She sang of the buds in the lily-fields, the bright sunshine, the soft rain, the dew on the grass-blades, the purple mists on the distant hills, the blue sky, and the joy of living; and when, as often she did, she came to the garden at break of day, even the contadini jogging along on the road outside would stop their mules, and pause till the song was ended; though they had to make up the lost time, and push the heavily-laden carts faster to the Mercato Vecchio. At the evening hour, when they toiled slowly homeward, her voice made them forget the steepness of the way.

"The last summer came. Count Marcello had said Margherita had been long enough alone, and must go into the world to meet men and women of her station. He had given orders that his palazzo in Venice be put in order for their reception that winter, and Margherita was now under the care of the count's only sister, who had come to prepare her in the ways of noble people. No more did Margherita chase the butterflies, or tease old Domenico, the peacock. But she did not forget Bassanio, and often came to sit here, on this bench, and to talk about the flowers she was soon to leave.

"I could not bear it if thou wert not going with us, Bassanio mio,' she would say. It is so bad to leave the flowers!'-and she would sing her wonderful song-only now it told of the flight of birds, the drooping of blossoms, the withering of grass-blades, the sleep of the butterflies, and the sorrow one hears at times in the wind.

"Then came with her useless prattle to Margherita, one day, the idle Rinella, the maid of Count Marcello's sister. I heard

"It has been told me,' said Rinella, 'that under the Fountain of Nymphs one may go down even to the streets of Florence. It is a wonderful passage, if one but knew how-'

"Hush thy miserable tongue, foolish one!' I cried, hurrying quickly toward her, and, bidding her no more trouble Margherita with her evil tales, sent her trembling to her mistress.

"But the cunning Rinella did not forget the harsh words that stung her, and ever cast black looks upon Bassanio. Then came her revenge, for, in spite of Bassanio's watchfulness, she learned that secret which only the Counts of Grazzi, Rametti the goldsmith, and Bassanio himself, had known-the secret of the Stone of the Lily.

"How she found the hidden spring that loosens the great stone, who can tell? But with a heavy iron bar she was able to slide the block away from the opening, and when Bassanio, having it in mind to keep away the crafty Rinella, came to sleep on the bench in the moonlight, he saw the dark hole below the steps that lead up to the fountain. Ah, now it seemed that old Bassanio's heart did not thump, thump, for a time; but when again he felt it, no mallet could pound harder! Then Bassanio moved toward the villa, and found his old, iron. garden-lamp. He must overtake his Margherita ere harm came to her in the passage, or she could stray into the city streets. And the girl, Rinella, should be taught that no good comes of a curious mind and a vengeful soul!

"Bah! How the dark from the underground crept into Bassanio's brain! How the lizards glistened along the sides of the rocks! Then the light fell on something on the pathwaya rose bud half drooping. None but Margherita wore the tender rose-buds. It was hers! Bassanio must keep it in his hand and hurry onward, or the carina would lose her way; and the night grew long, and ever longer. Now she would be afraid in the endless blackness!

"Surely that was a light ahead-yes, two tapers in the distance. Now they were gone; no, there they were again. Bassanio stumbled on a sharp stone, and his lamp went out. He must creep on his hands and knees. Would he never reach the lights? Yes, the rose-bud would help him. He had not lost that. It loved her. He would bring her away from all the harm!

their knowledge, and from the grille, the crickets that sing in the moonlight, she learned rhythm, and patience to try over and over without tiring what she already knew.

"Often, in the sunny noon, would she mournfully cry, ' Pa-ve, pa-ve,' and old Domenico, the peacock, would strut down the terrace spreading his tail, and echoing her call; or, when the warm dusk had stolen over the garden, would Margherita make the cry of the lonesome owl, and each time was it answered by that sad little bird itself, off in a far-away cypress-tree.

'Margherita had words to all of her songs, but they were not such as those the women of the villa sang. No; Margherita sang in her own tongue what the creatures sing in theirs. She sang of the buds in the lily-fields, the bright sunshine, the soft rain, the dew on the grass-blades, the purple mists on the distant hills, the blue sky, and the joy of living; and when, as often she did, she came to the garden at break of day, even the contadini jogging along on the road outside would stop their mules, and pause till the song was ended; though they had to make up the lost time, and push the heavily-laden carts faster to the Mercato Vecchio. At the evening hour, when they toiled slowly homeward, her voice. made them forget the steepness of the way.

"The last summer came. Count Marcello had said Margherita had been long enough alone, and must go into the world to meet men and women of her station. He had given orders that his palazzo in Venice be put in order for their reception that winter, and Margherita was now under the care of the count's only sister, who had come to prepare her in the ways of noble people. No more did Margherita chase the butterflies, or tease old Domenico, the peacock. But she did not forget Bassanio, and often came to sit here, on this bench, and to talk about the flowers she was soon to leave.

"I could not bear it if thou wert not going with us, Bassanio mio,' she would say. 'It is so bad to leave the flowers!' and she would sing her wonderful song-only now it told of the flight of birds, the drooping of blossoms, the withering of grass-blades, the sleep of the butterflies, and the sorrow one hears at times in the wind.

"Then came with her useless prattle to Margherita, one day, the idle Rinella, the maid of Count Marcello's sister. I heard