But a very friendly understanding was now arrived at, and Roma was quite willing to accept Tor as a kind of ‘big brother,’ and to treat him with a frank cordiality that was the surest indication of a mind at ease. The confession which he had made to her, upon the night of their odd betrothal, had been a wise one, for it had taken away all sense of embarrassed discomfort, and given her an interest in him which she could not otherwise have indulged. Altogether, an episode which might have been very painful and trying, had, by a little dexterous management on Tor’s part, led to a more comfortable state of mutual understanding than had seemed possible at one time; and Roma gained such confidence in his skill, as well as in his kindliness, that she ceased to trouble her head as to how the matter was to end, feeling certain that he would clear it up all in good time, and in a way which would cause no painful shock to her father’s feelings. Roma was at work again in her studio about a week after her father’s sudden illness. Michael Meredith was downstairs again, sleeping quietly in his own small study. The girl had left him, as she could do now, with a mind at ease, and had returned to her work. She was modelling a bust of Maud Debenham, to give to her brother as a token of friendship and gratitude. Maud had given her a sitting that morning, and she was anxious to get on with the work before the next visit, which was promised for the morrow. The bust was a great source of delight to the two girls, and its existence was kept a profound secret from the intended recipient. Roma was hard at work upon the clay, when a servant entered with a card upon a tray. ‘It is a foreign gentleman to see master,’ was the explanation. ‘He cannot speak hardly any English. I think he is Italian by his looks. What shall I do with him? The master is asleep.’ ‘And he must not be disturbed. I must see the—is he a gentleman, Anne?’ ‘Yes, ma’am—I think so, by the looks of him; but one can never trust those foreign chaps.’ Roma smiled at this insular prejudice, and looked down at the card. The name was written in the fine characters of foreign penmanship— _Marco Pagliadini._ ‘I do not think I remember the name; but he may be a friend of father’s, from Italy. I must not send him away,’ said Roma to herself. Then aloud she added: ‘Show the gentleman here, Anne, and let me know when your master is awake.’ A few minutes later, a grave, handsome young Italian was shown in, who bowed low to Roma with a stately grace, which had nothing servile in its reverence; and relieved her at once from the suspicion that the stranger might be some foreign beggar who had come to sponge upon her father. This man was evidently of gentle birth and breeding; and the girl felt at once at her ease with him.