mouth watered for the last morsel that Hera, in the purest spirit of self-sacrifice, consented to a marriage with Tarsis. Matchmakers of Milan’s fashionable world, who had known that the Tarsis millions were knocking at the Barbiondi gate, received the announcement of the betrothal as the extinguishment of their last hope, but in the world of creditors there was a wild rejoicing. The mortgagee lost his appetite for the last morsel of the estate. Milliners, makers of gowns and boots, purveyors of food and drink, sent in humble prayers for patronage instead of angry demands for pay. Everywhere the bloodhounds of debt slunk off the scent. A day of mid-April was chosen for the wedding, and as it drew near Hera retained her studied air of cheerfulness, that Don Riccardo might not divine the price his peace of mind demanded of her. She rode about the countryside, sometimes with her father, oftener alone, while the task of preparation for the nuptials went forward under the willing hand of Aunt Beatrice. To that contented woman the bride-elect’s lukewarm interest in the affair was a source of wonder. With eyes uplifted and hands clasped she paused now and then to ask if ever Heaven had given an aunt a niece of such scant enthusiasm. Such was the situation the day that Hera had her adventure on the river. No experience of life had dwelt so pleasantly in her thought as the meeting and converse with Mario Forza. No coming event had ever interested her so warmly as that he was going to dine in Villa Barbiondi--that she was going to meet him again. She spent the closing hours of Wednesday afternoon at her window looking over the river toward the fields and buildings of the Social Dairy. She saw one herd after another wind its way homeward up the pass and watched eagerly for the coming forth of Mario. When the file of poplars that bordered the highway by the river were casting their longest shadows she saw him ride out and begin the descent of the hill. For some time she was able to keep him in view as he trotted his horse along the level road. When he came upon the Bridge of Speranza--the waters had not ended their spree--she was conscious of a new anxiety, and when he had gained the nearer shore she felt a strange relief. A little while and the shadows of the poplars were neither short nor long, and darkness hid him from sight. Presently the voice of her father, raised in welcome, mingled with the most genial tones of Donna Beatrice, sounding up the staircase, told her that he had arrived. “Ha, my friend!” she heard Don Riccardo saying, “this is the greatest of delights. Why, I knew your father, sir. The Marquis and I served the old king. And a gay service it was for blades who knew how to be gay. Magnificent old days!” “I heard much of you, Don Riccardo, from my father,” Mario said.