"Yes--too late," said Stella, guiltily. If she might only tell him! "I won't be so late again." He looked up. "You will have Frank to keep you company now," he said. Stella turned to the boy with a smile that was still eloquent of guilt. "I shall be very glad," she said, feeling dreadfully deceitful. "You know all the pretty places, no doubt, and must act as _cicerone_." His eyes dropped. "No, I don't," he said. "I haven't been here before." "Frank has been at school," said Mr. Etheridge, quietly. "You will have to be the _cicerone_," and he rose and wandered to the window. Stella rang the bell, wheeled up the arm-chair, and got the old man's pipe, hanging over him with marked tenderness, and the boy watched her with the same intent look. Then she came back to her seat, and took out some work. "You are not going to work to-night?" he said, leaning his elbows on the table and his head upon his hands--small, white, delicate hands, to match the face. "This is only make-believe," she said. "Don't you know the old proverb about idle hands?" And she laughed. He started, and his face paled. Stella wondered what she had said to affect him, and hurried on. "I can't sit still and do nothing, can you?" "Yes, for hours," he said, with a smile; "I am awfully idle, but I must get better habits; I must follow your example. I mean to read while I'm down here--read hard, don't you know. Shall I begin to-night?" he asked, his eyes upon her with almost slavish intentness. "Not to-night," she said, with a laugh; "you must be tired. You have come from London, haven't you?" "Yes," he said; "and I am rather tired. I would rather sit and watch you, if you don't mind." She shook her head. "Not in the least. You can tell me about your school." "I would rather sit and watch you in silence," he said, "unless you like to talk. I should like that." He seemed a queer boy; there was something almost sad in his quietness, but Stella felt that it was only temporary. "He is tired, poor boy," she thought. Presently she said: "How old are you?" "Seventeen," he said. She looked at him. "I did not think you were so old," she said, with a laugh. He smiled. "Few persons do. Yes; I am seventeen." "Why, you are quite a man," she said, with a laugh. He blushed--proving his boyhood--and shook his head. "Stella," came the old man's voice, "will you play something?" She rose instantly, and glided to the organ and began to play. She had been playing some little time; then she commenced to sing. Suddenly she heard a sound suspiciously like a sob close to her side, and looking round saw that the boy had stolen to a low seat near her, and was leaning his face upon his hands. She stopped, but with a sudden gesture and a look toward her, the silent, seated figure motioned her to go on. She finished--it was the "Ave Maria,"--and then bent down to him. "You are tired!" she whispered.