Then he relapsed into one of his dreamy silences, and she waited silent and motionless. Suddenly he felt her quiver under his arm, and heave a long, deep sigh. With a start he looked down; her face had gone wofully pale to the very lips. "Stella!" he cried, "what is it? Are you ill? Great Heaven!" She smiled up at him. "No, no, only a little tired; and," with naive simplicity, "I think I am a little hungry. You see, I only had enough for the fare." "Heaven forgive me!" he cried, starting up so suddenly as almost to upset her. "Here have I been dreaming and mooning while the child was starving. What a brainless idiot I am!" And in his excitement he hurried up and down the room, knocking over a painting here and a lay figure there, and looking aimlessly about as if he expected to see something in the shape of food floating in the air. At last with his hand to his brow he bethought him of the bell, and rang it until the little cottage resounded as if it were a fire-engine station. There was a hurried patter of footsteps outside, the door was suddenly opened, and a middle-aged woman ran in, with a cap very much awry and a face startled and flushed. "Gracious me, sir, what's the matter?" she exclaimed. Mr. Etheridge dropped the bell, and without a word of explanation, exclaimed--"Bring something to eat at once, Mrs. Penfold, and some wine, at once, please. The poor child is starving." The woman looked at him with amazement, that increased as glancing round the room she failed to see any poor child, Stella being hidden behind the antique high-backed chair. "Poor child, what poor child! You've been dreaming, Mr. Etheridge!" "No, no!" he said, meekly; "it's all true, Mrs. Penfold. She has come all the way from Florence without a morsel to eat." Stella rose from her ambush. "Not all the way from Florence, uncle," she said. Mrs. Penfold started and stared at the visitor. "Good gracious me!" she exclaimed; "who is it?" Mr. Etheridge rubbed his brow. "Did I not tell you? It is my niece--my niece Stella. She has come from Italy, and--I wish you'd bring some food. Bring a bottle of the old wine. Sit down and rest, Stella. This is Mrs. Penfold--she is my housekeeper, and a good woman, but,"--he added, without lowering his tone in the slightest, though he was evidently under the idea that he was inaudible--"but rather slow in comprehension." Mrs. Penfold came forward, still flushed and excited, and with a smile. "Your niece, sir! Not Mr. Harold's daughter that you so often have spoken of! Why, how did you come in, miss?" "I found the door open," said Stella. "Good gracious me! And dropped from the clouds! And that must have been an hour ago! And you, sir," looking at the bewildered artist reproachfully, "you let the dear young thing sit here with her hat and jacket on all that time, after coming all that way, without sending for me." "We didn't want you," said the old man, calmly.