While Deborah was trembling with pleasure in this work of art, I heard the latch of the ticket-office door click, and, turning, saw Beatrice. She stood upon the threshold, gazing not at me but at Deborah. In a year she had grown tall. Her hair was coiled upon her neck, and her eyes seemed to be deeper and tawnier than ever. "What a pretty child!" exclaimed my companion. "It's Beatrice," I answered. "How do you do, little girl? How is Pietro?" "My father is well," replied the girl; but her scrutiny still rested upon my companion's face and yellow hair. Under this inspection Deborah was flushing, and I hastened to end it. "This is Miss Speedwell, Beatrice." I said. "She has come with me to see the play. You must give us good seats." Beatrice touched Deborah's glove with a soiled paw, and, without a word of reply, led the way through the door of the theatre and along the aisle. We had arrived early, and the theatre was empty. The place was fascinating enough, but I noticed that my companion, who was commonly both curious and self-reliant, followed me closely. "What a beautiful, strange child," she whispered. "H—m! child!" I said to myself, and fell to musing upon my last visit to the theatre. [Illustration: "She promised herself to both last night."] "Beatrice," I asked, "are you married yet?" "No, Signore," answered the girl, without turning her head. "What has become of Anselmo?" I went on. "He is 'ere. 'E is our helper." "And Giuseppe?" "'E is 'ere. My father cood not-a get better helpers. Why dey go away?" This I could not answer. Beatrice had a way of making me shamefaced. "Dese are your seats," she said, pausing at the third row of settees. "Now I begga to pardon, I must go to my father." "But you'll come back, won't you, Beatrice?" I asked. "We have forgotten some of our Italian, and we need you to interpret for us—just as you used to interpret for me." This attempt to establish old-time relations fell flat. Beatrice replied, "Yes, Signore," in calm tones, and left us. When she had closed the door, Deborah drew a long breath. [Illustration: Had once been a stable.] "I'm glad she's gone," said Deborah. "She made me feel uncanny." "Nonsense," I laughed. "She's only a queer little girl. Look at Pietro's paintings; they are more wholesome." The dingy little theatre had once been a stable. Pietro had turned the loft into a gallery, with tiers of benches receding high into the gloom. He had cut off the stall-room with a wooden proscenium. Upon it twined a mastodon of a vine, the like of which no botanist ever beheld. The toy curtain bore, upon its forty-eight square feet of canvas, a representation of a Roman triumph that would have insured Pietro's admission into any Academy with a sense of humor.