“Oh, my dear! what is the matter? You are so pale, and you look like you had been crying?” exclaimed sweet Alexie anxiously. “I--I--have a headache,” Italy faltered evasively. “Dear Alexie, I _cannot_ sit to Ralph this morning. You must take my place, please.” “But, Italy, come with me to the studio, won’t you? The morning is so bright and crisp that it will cure your head to get out in the fresh air, and you can rest on the sofa there, you know.” Italy could not resist the sweet pleading of her friend, and she knew it would be better to get away from her own torturing thoughts for the present, so she hastily made a fresh toilet, and, joining Alexie, they were driven in the natty coupé to Ralph Allen’s studio on Tremont Street. “You are late,” the young artist said, greeting them with his bright smile and a sweet, stolen glance at his adored one. “It was all my fault. I was not feeling well and forgot my sitting until Alexie called for me. Then she had to wait for me to dress. And--I cannot sit to you this morning. Alexie must have my turn,” explained Italy, who was still looking ghastly pale and distrait with the memory of all that Mr. Gardner had told her that morning. “You shall lie on the sofa and rest,” said the artist kindly. “And here is Mr. Seabright to amuse you.” Percy Seabright came forward with his cheerful air and greeted both girls warmly. “I heard that Ralph was painting you two on canvas together as ‘Night’ and ‘Morning,’ and rushed off to see it,” he explained. “It is going to be beautiful--beautiful! How arch and smiling Alexie looks as ‘Morning,’ ‘in her eyes the blue of the sea, on her hair the gold of the sun,’ and Italy, with that pensive, moonlight smile and her dusky hair and eyes, makes an ideal ‘Night.’” They stood a few moments contemplating the canvas on which the two girl faces were growing in exquisite likeness to the originals, then Alexie exclaimed: “Come, Italy, take off your hat and lie down on the sofa in this little alcove. I know Mr. Seabright will amuse you until Ralph finishes my sitting.” She lay down and closed her eyes wearily, but knowing too well that she should not rest, but go on thinking, thinking, until her brain seemed to burn with its torturing burdens. Suddenly a soft, cool hand fell on her hot forehead. “Do you know that there is magic in my touch? Just a few light little passes, if you will permit me, and the poor head will be well,” said Percy Seabright’s voice, low and tenderly. She did not answer, and he continued to stroke her brow and hair with light, caressing touches that did indeed seem to charm away the heated throbbing in her temples. Then she opened her eyes with a faint, grateful little smile. “It is so much better--thank you!” she said, drawing back her head gently from the hand whose pressure was so tender she found it embarrassing. “I knew you would be better,” he said smilingly. “Now close your eyes and you will sleep.”