It had become "home" to her now, the country which she had so long repudiated. "Home" after a half year’s residence; "home," though the language spoken there was to her a foreign one. The meeting is not without its tears, the pleasure not unmixed with pain. Eager questions are asked, and faithfully answered. Millicent’s visitor brings her tidings and tender messages from far-off friends. He is rewarded for his pains by a faint smile which glimmers over the pale features, rising in the deep eyes and losing itself in the tender curves of the mouth. Beside the couch stands a delicate bronze table wrought by no less cunning a hand than Benvenuto’s. A vase of flowers and a crystal bell are here placed. The musical note of the bell now summons a domestic, who bows at the order given, softly disappears, and soon re-enters, bearing a salver on which are a plate of fruits and a bluish decanter, with glasses of the dainty Venetian fashion. From the delicately tendrilled flask Millicent pours a clear golden wine whose perfume permeates the apartment. She fills both glasses, and, touching the edge of hers to the rim of his, bids him drink to the health of the dear ones at home. Galbraith stops the musical ring which the contact has drawn from the tumbler by touching the edge with his finger in a mechanical manner. It was one of the superstitions which had waned to a habit with him. "Why do you drown that sound of good cheer?" "Because my grandmother told me when I was a little child that if a glass rang itself out to silence, the sound was sure to prove a death-knell." "Listen, you can still hear mine faintly. It is a wonderful wine, connoisseurs say, this Lacrymæ Christi of ours. How different, is it not, from the strong red wine of California that you gave us that day,--do you remember?--when we feasted with you under the fig-tree." "As different as you were to the rest of us gathered about the board that day." "And yet I would give all the wine that lies mellowing in the cellars of the palace for one cup of your good Los Angelos vintage." The wine seemed to spread through her frame like a flame. It brought a flush to the pale cheeks and strength to the fragile body. She arose and walked unsupported across the room to a dusky mirror. She wrapped herself in a garment of silvery fur, and together they left the room fit for the boudoir of a princess. At the doorway Girolomo awaited them. Waving aside the domestic who stood ready to assist him, the strong gondolier lifted the delicate figure and bore it unaided down the marble stairs. He laid her light weight gently among the cushions of the gondola, and assuming his oar with the incomparably graceful movement of his guild, rowed the black-hooded craft down the Grand Canal. To the young American, the awe and mystery of the place are not yet familiar; and as the boat glides between the rows of mighty palaces, he wonders if the strange scene is the fabric of his own dream.