Bertino mixed the paint, selected a cheap brush from the stock of the shop, and set to work on the Bunch. It is doubtful that he heard the swish, swish of the brush. His thoughts were of Juno. Her absence had extended long over the six months, and for more than thirty days he had not heard from her. There was no excuse for this neglect, he reasoned, since her education had been so liberal that she could spell and write as well as any woman in Mulberry. Of the few letters received from her, each had contained a tale of woe--the woe of a ballet lady striving to live on the road with a salary of ten dollars a week. The missives, rich in terms of endearment, always touched his pocket as well as his heart, and by return mail he never failed to send her a dollar or two. But why had she been silent this last month of the tour, instead of writing to tell him where to meet her when she should reach the city? Already she ought to be here. What if she never came back--if she forsook him? In the shock of this terrible thought he upset the pail of yellow just as Signor Di Bello stepped out of the shop. “Soul of a cat!” exclaimed the grocer, the toe of one of his black shoes tipped with the paint. “What the rhinoceros are you about? _Gran Dio_, what stupendous stupidity!” Re-entering the shop, he cleaned off the paint, fuming the while and growling. Then he flew out, scowling at Bertino as he passed, and made straight for the Caffè of the Three Gardens. “The monkey!” said Bertino to himself. “When the bust arrives I’ll be rid of him.” A moment afterward the letter carrier handed him a large envelope addressed in a big, round hand to “Bertino Manconi, Esq.” It was from a customhouse agent, announcing the arrival of the bust, and offering to attend to the business of clearing it. To this end it would be necessary for Bertino to forward the amount of the duty, a hundred and forty dollars. He put the letter in his pocket, filled with apprehension of trouble, for his English was so weak that he could not make out the meaning of the part about the duty, though he suspected that the sum of a hundred and forty dollars was in some way required of him. That evening, after he had lugged in the Wooden Bunch and locked the shop door, he took the mysterious paper to Signor Tomato, who told him the awful truth. “It must be a great work of art,” said the banker; “very valuable.” “Valuable!” said Bertino. “Ah, _caro mio_, if you only knew! Well, I will tell you. It is a bust of her Majesty the Presidentessa.” “What Presidentessa?” “Of the United States.” “St. Januarius! Is it possible?”