The old man looked down at her with a touch of awe in his eyes. "Yes, yes," he murmured; "it was his wish that you should remain there at school. He knew what I was, an aimless dreamer, a man living out of the world, and no fit guardian for a young girl. Oh, yes, Harold knew. He acted for the best, and I was content. My life was too lonely, and quiet, and lifeless for a young girl, and I thought that all was right, while those fiends----" She put her hand on his arm. "Do not let us speak of them, or think of them any more, uncle. You will let me stay with you, will you not? I shall not think your life lonely; it will be a Paradise after that which I have left--Paradise. And, see, I will strive to make it less lonely; but"--and she turned suddenly with a look of troubled fear--"but perhaps I shall be in your way?" and she looked round. "No, no," he said, and he put his hand to his brow. "It is strange! I never felt my loneliness till now! and I would not have you go for all the world!" She wound her arms round him, and nestled closer, and there was silence for a space; then he said: "How old are you, Stella?" She thought a moment. "Nineteen, uncle." "Nineteen--a child!" he murmured; then he looked at her, and his lips moved inaudibly as he thought, "Beautiful as an angel," but she heard him, and her face flushed, but the next moment she looked up frankly and simply. "You would not say that much if you had seen my mamma. _She_ was beautiful as an angel. Papa used to say that he wished you could have seen her; that you would have liked to paint her. Yes, she was beautiful." The artist nodded. "Poor, motherless child!" he murmured. "Yes, she was beautiful," continued the girl, softly. "I can just remember her, uncle. Papa never recovered from her death. He always said that he counted the days till he should meet her again. He loved her so, you see." There was silence again; then the artist spoke: "You speak English with scarcely an accent, Stella." The girl laughed; it was the first time she had laughed, and it caused the uncle to start. It was not only because it was unexpected, but because of its exquisite music. It was like the trill of a bird. In an instant he felt that her childish sorrow had not imbittered her life or broken her spirit. He found himself almost unconsciously laughing in harmony. "What a strange observation, uncle!" she said, when the laugh had died away. "Why I am English! right to the backbone, as papa used to say. Often and often he used to look at me and say: 'Italy has no part and parcel in you beyond your birth, Stella; you belong to that little island which floats on the Atlantic and rules the world.' Oh, yes, I am English. I should be sorry to be anything else, notwithstanding mamma was an Italian." He nodded. "Yes, I remember Harold--your father--always said you were an English girl. I am glad of that." "So am I," said the girl, naively.