As she did so her foot struck against a piece of armor, and the noise aroused the old man and caused him to look round. With a start he gazed at the girl as if impressed with the idea that she must be something unsubstantial and visionary--some embodiment of his evening dreams, and so he sat looking at her, his artist eye taking in the lithe, graceful figure, the beautiful face, with its dark eyes and long, sweeping lashes, its clearly penciled brows, and soft, mobile lips, in rapt absorption. It is possible that if she had turned and left him, never to have crossed into his life again, he would have sunk back into dreamland, and to the end of his days have regarded her as unreal and visionary; but, with a subtle, graceful movement, the girl threaded the maze of litter and disorder and stood beside him. He, still looking up, saw that the beautiful eyes were dim, that the exquisitely curved lips were quivering with some intense emotion, and suddenly there broke upon the silence a low, sweet voice: "Are you James Etheridge?" The artist started. It was not the words, but the tone--the voice that startled him, and for a brief second he was still dumb, then he rose, and looking at her with faint, trembling questioning, he answered: "Yes, that is my name. I am James Etheridge." Her lips quivered again, but still, quietly and simply, she said: "You do not know me? I am Stella--your niece, Stella." The old man threw up his head and stared at her, and she saw that he trembled. "Stella--my niece--Harold's child!" "Yes," she said, in a low voice, "I am Stella." "But, merciful Heaven!" he exclaimed, with agitation, "how did you come here? Why--I thought you were at the school there in Florence--why--have you come here alone?" Her eyes wandered from his face to the exquisite scene beyond, and at that moment her look was strangely like his own. "Yes, I came alone, uncle," she said. "Merciful Heaven!" he murmured again, sinking into his chair. "But why--why?" The question is not unkindly put, full, rather, of a troubled perplexity and bewilderment. Stella's eyes returned to his face. "I was unhappy, uncle," she said, simply. "Unhappy!" he echoed, gently--"unhappy! My child, you are too young to know what the word means. Tell me"--and he put his long white hand on her arm. The touch was the one thing needed to draw them together. With a sudden, yet not abrupt movement, she slid down at his side and leant her head on his arm. "Yes, I was very unhappy, uncle. They were hard and unkind. They meant well perhaps, but it was not to be borne. And then--then, after papa died, it was so lonely, so lonely. There was no one--no one to care for me--to care whether one lived or died. Uncle, I bore it as long as I could, and then I--came." The old man's eyes grew dim, and his hand rose gently to her head, and smoothed the rich, silky hair. "Poor child! poor child!" he murmured, dreamily, looking not at her, but at the gloaming outside.