The description of silver chiselling in “Marzio’s Crucifix” is the result of actual experience, for Mr. Crawford once studied this branch of art, and produced several objects of considerable promise. In rebuilding and adding to his house he has never employed an architect, for he is a good practical builder and stone-mason, as well as a creditable mathematician, and his foreman in all such work is a clever laborer who can neither read nor write. Like many left-handed men, he is skilful in the use of tools, and his mechanical capacity was tested recently when, having taken out a complete system of American plumbing, including a kitchen boiler, he could find no workmen who understood such appliances, and so put them all in himself, with the help of two or three plumbers whose knowledge did not extend beyond soldering a joint. When the job was done everything worked perfectly, to his justifiable satisfaction. As he is a very fair classical scholar and an excellent linguist, he could easily support himself as a tutor if it were necessary, or he might even attain to the awful dignity of a high-class courier. His study or workroom at Villa Crawford is on the top of the house, by the tower, and opens upon a flat roof, after the Italian fashion. There are windows on three sides, as it is often important to be able to shut out the sun without losing too much light; the walls are simply white-washed, and the floor is of green and white tiles. In the middle there is a very large table, with a shelf at the back on which stand in a row a number of engravings and etchings, most of which were given him by his wife, prominent among them being “The Knight, Death, and the Devil,” by Dürer, mentioned in the beginning of “A Rose of Yesterday.” A small revolving bookcase full of books of reference has its place close to his hand, and his writing chair is of the most ordinary American pattern. The large plain brick fireplace projects into the room, and on the broad mantel-shelf stands a replica of his father Thomas Crawford’s Peri, a winged figure, fully draped, gazing sadly toward the forfeited paradise. On one wall hangs an engraving by Van Dalen after a portrait of Giorgione by Titian, of which the original has been destroyed, and on another a large photograph of Giorgione’s Knight of Malta, and small ones of his pilot-schooner as she looked when he crossed the ocean in her, and as she appears now, transformed into the yacht Alda, and refitted so that his wife and children may accompany him on the cruises which form his usual vacations. The effect of the room as a whole is severe and simple, but the view from its windows is most beautiful and varied. To the south lie olive-clad hills, with white houses dotted here and there among orange-groves, and with the craggy mass of Monte Sant’ Angelo, rising higher than Vesuvius itself, for a background; westward one looks over Sant’ Agnello and the neighboring townships, and to the northeast, across the shining bay,