his surprise at the alluring, girlish figure now before him. Perhaps this one was in here by mistake. Or, she might be some lovely victim of disappointed love. May be a human angel brutally treated by cruel relatives. Perhaps a marriageable princess escaping a distasteful alliance. But these were merely guesses. She was standing not far away, and was partly hidden from the convent buildings by the trunks of the ancient cypresses. Cyrus approached this damsel. He saw that she was short, and slight of figure, distinctly _petite_, and so absorbed in her own thoughts that she failed to hear his footsteps on the gravel walk. He coughed. It seemed a safe if not original manner of announcing his presence. The girl turned and faced him. She was startled; and a hand went swiftly to her lips as if to suppress an exclamation. A short moment they stood regarding each other, a dozen feet apart, the light full in the face of the intruder, while the girl's was partly in shadow. For the descending sun was almost directly behind her. So earnestly she studied him that he became embarrassed. Her own surprise was so great that her lips parted, then closed again, as if her voice were lost in astonishment. She took a backward step and laid a hand on the parapet as if for support. As for Cyrus, this little person was easily the most entrancing vision of his experience. Slight, erect, with a dainty head and glorious eyes, she seemed a perfect and harmonious element with the radiant splendors in the West. Such eyes he had not beheld since he lived beneath the spell of the celestial windows of Ruth Heywood's soul. These present eyes, now opened wide in wonder, were trying to grapple with his presence, as with some visitors from another planet. Cyrus bowed; his very best, most elaborate and ceremonious inclination. And Cyrus's bows were works of art. Had he been attired in court costume, and swept the earth with a chapeau of ostrich plumes instead of a checkered golf cap, he would have eclipsed the Grand Monarque in his own field. It was, of course, the same old salutation that had startled Longfields years ago. Then he advanced a step. "Do you happen to speak English, madam?" The girl hesitated a moment, then nodded. Cyrus, delighted at the unexpected answer, took another step nearer--perhaps two or three. Joy was written in his face. His manner became, unconsciously, almost familiar. "How fortunate! I am a stranger here. Can you tell me what place this is?" As he moved nearer the parapet the girl had turned toward him until her face was more in the sunlight. In his own face admiration was clearly written. The girl lowered her eyes. But she made no answer. He spoke again. "This certainly is not a hospital, is it?" She moved her head, gently, in the negative. "Is it the palace, or villa, of some King, or Prince or Duke--or something?" Again the silent answer in the negative. A chilling thought came to the traveler. Could this be a deaf and dumb asylum?