“Christian,” she said gravely, “you do not like him?” Looked upon as a mere divination of thought, this was very quick; but he seemed in no way perturbed. He turned and looked down with a smile at her grave face. “No,” he replied. “Not very much.” “Why?” “I do not know. There is something wrong about him, I think!” She laughed and shook her head. “What do you mean?” she asked. “How can there be anything wrong with him--anything that would affect us, at all events?” He shrugged his shoulders, still smiling. “He says he is an Italian?” “Yes,” she replied. “I say he is a Frenchman,” said Christian, suddenly turning towards her. “Italians do not talk English as he talks it.” She looked puzzled. “Do you know him?” she asked. “No; not yet. I know his face. I have seen it or a photograph of it somewhere, and at some time. I cannot tell when or where yet, but it will come to me.” “When it does come,” said Hilda, with a smile, “you will find that it is some one else. I can assure you Signor Bruno is an Italian, and beyond that he is the nicest old gentleman imaginable.” “Well,” replied Christian. “In the meantime I vote that we do not trouble ourselves about him.” The subject was dropped, and not again referred to until after they had reached home, when Hilda informed her mother that Signor Bruno had returned. “Oh, indeed,” was the reply. “I am very glad. You must ask him to dinner to-morrow evening. Is he not a nice old man, Christian?” “Very,” replied Christian, almost before the words were out of her lips. “Yes, very nice.” He looked across the table towards Hilda with an absolutely expressionless composure. During the following day, which he passed with Sidney and Stanley at sea in a little cutter belonging to the Carews, Christian learnt, without asking many questions, all that Signor Bruno had vouchsafed in the way of information respecting himself. It was a short story and an old one, such as many a white-haired Italian could tell to-day. A life, income, and energy devoted to a cause which never had much promise of reward. Failure, exile, and a life closing in a land where the blue skies of Italy are known only by name, where Maraschino is at a premium, and long black cigars almost unobtainable.