She, on the other hand, never lost her composure for a second. She spoke in English, with the faintest possible stammer: “Yes, th--thanks; it _is_ the wrong face. Would you t--take it away?” He retired at once, walked twenty yards down the road, and then met the full humour of the situation. He laughed a long, suppressed laugh. He went on and on, away from the village, out over the heath, away from the haunts of men. And, as he walked, the humour of the situation vanished again; but the night was full of her music, her queenliness, the fragrant charm of her presence. “Viola,” he said softly, “Viola, what a heavenly mistake!” Three years passed away. The poor but artistic man grew slowly wealthy in those years. The exaltation of that night never left him; he was full of brightness and happiness; his work was all light and strength. He grew popular--partly by reason of his excellent spirits, and partly because of his finer qualities. His luck was proverbially good; but he had enough hope, optimism, and vigour to have carried him safely through the most trying fortunes. His reputation was at its brightest when his death came. He was in an accident--a commonplace railway accident--an accident that passed over a dishonest commercial traveller in one compartment, and killed the artist in the next. There was a short period, however, chiefly occupied by delirium, between the accident and the man’s death. It was at the end of the delirium that he turned to the friend who was by his bedside, and asked abruptly: “Have I been speaking of Viola?” “Yes; of course I wouldn’t----” “Of course. All the time?” “All the time.” “Were you surprised?” “Well, I have known you most of your life, and I never heard you speak of her before--not in that way at all. I did not know that you had been her lover.” “I was not. But once, before she left England, I was--I was her lover’s under-study. I have lived on it ever since,” he added, after a pause. Then, through some queer freak of the brain, the humour of the mistaken kiss appealed to him again, and he began to laugh--uncontrollably, as if the thing had just happened. Laughter was the worst thing possible for him in that state. He died laughing. * * * * * “I suppose she--Viola--didn’t care,” said Erato thoughtfully, when Terpsichore had finished her story. “You forget that she had some one else to think about. Did you ever know a woman yet that thought twice, by way of pity, about a man she did _not_ love, when she had a man that she _did_ love to think about?” “N--no,” Erato replied. There was a moment’s pause. “Personally I don’t mind,” said Clio, “but--considering where we are--do you think that last story quite--quite judicious?” IV. MELPOMENE’S STORY: THE CURSED PIG.