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Show peasant dress with some green Ivy trailing trail-ing across the ski. The young Englishman English-man worked harSsr than he had ever done before; perhaps the great beauty of his model inspired him, for when the picture that was to bring him fame and fortune stood at last completed the painter felt he could say of his own work that it was good. "Come here, Beatrice," he said, "and j tell what you think of it." j "If you like it, signor, then it pleases me; bnt what will become of it now that it is all finished? It is really very fine, that picture of ours," and she nodded her head in solemn approval. i He smiled a little at the evident pride she took in "that picture of ours," and then he answered her question. j The world shall have it, Cara Mia, if it pays a good round price, but the littio model she looked so pretty he could not resist saying it will belong to me?" and he held his hand out to her as he spoke. Trustingly, confidingly, the young Italian gave him hers, and Paul Court-land Court-land raised it to his lips. "Very well," he said, "remember you promised," and then, changing his tone, "it is time for you to go now, Beatrice, but first let me give you a present for being such a good child and holding so till." He went to a cabinet and, taking out a tiny sapphire frame, replaced the portrait por-trait it contuined of a French lady with one of his own. "This," and he laughed aa he gave it to her. "is a poor exchango for yours. Adio till to-morrow." "How kind you are, eignor. I can never thank you enough," and the dark eyes shone with pleasure as she left the tudio. "It is only the jewels that delight her," he said comfortably to himself as he closed the door, "but she is a dear, good little thing, and I must be careful for her sake as well as my own. How foolish I have been for the last few days. I came to Florence to make my fortune, not to fall in love with the first pretty face I mot. Beautiful Beatrice! I would not like to make her unhappy, and sho trusts me so. But as yet there's no harm done; she is only a child and cares no more for me than I for her." He felt very noble as ho leaned out of the window win-dow and called after the retreating figure fig-ure once more, "Adio." This time, though, he did not add "till to-morrow." but "forever." The flower girl heard the first word only. The next morning Beatrice went to the ruin at the accustomed hour to sell her lilies. Noon passed and made way for evening, but Paul Courtland did not come. The next day and the next, and finally a whole month, crept by; still her young English lover came not, and the pretty face grew paler as the weeks wore on. She knew nothing had happened to him, for her sharp eyes had described him once or twice in the distance. Surely Sure-ly he had not tired of her? Not he had told her once that he loved her and he was too noble, too good, to nttor a falsehood. false-hood. Perhaps he had been very busy and had not found time to come; Beatrice caught ut this as a lost hope. One sultry Afternoon the weary girl slipped in through the open doorway of the grand Cathedral of Florence to find consolation in prayer; tired out with watching and waiting she fell asleep. The mighty peal of the organ at last aroused her, and looking up she saw a wedding was about to be celebrated. The scene was one of joy and brilliance; myriads of candles were burning on the altar in front of which stood a stately lady dressed in the purest white. Beatrice Bea-trice recognized her as the Bignorina Binezza, the rieho't heiress in all Florence. Flor-ence. Beside her was a distinguished looking inan, very tall and very fair. Something in his attitude as he stood thero struck sudden terror to Beatrice's heart; she tried to dispel the wild fear and leaned forward the bettor to see his face. Just then tho service began, she heard his voice and all doubt was at an end this was Paul Courtland's wedding day. With tightly folded hands and a face that was terribly white the flower girl heard tho service through, heard the priest pronounce the benediction wd then knew no more. Some hours later a priest might have been seen walking toward the Arno, wishing, perhaps, to escape from the hum of the noisy city and be free to reflect re-flect in peace, lulled by the rippling of the water transformed to gleaming silver sil-ver in the moonlight. He paused awhile on reaching the banks, everything was ! so beautiful; he looked long at the starry i heavens, and thou his gaze wandored to j the shining river at his feet Suddenly I lie started, and a shiver ran through his j frame on the shore he had discerned something, a woman's form, which the laughing, cruel waves had left there, having tired of their prey. The priest bent down the tetter to see her face. Through the tangled black hair, falling THE FLOWER GIRL It was a fair evening of early summer and in Florence. The etmset rays lingered lin-gered lovingly it seemed on the broad valley of the Arno, tonching in a rosy kiss the spurs of the Apennines and the hilla on its banks. The quiet, too, for the work of the day was over lent its charm.impressing in particular a traveler who was walking toward an unpretentious unpreten-tious inn not far from the river. The stranger, an Englishman his dress proclaimed pro-claimed him, was ploasant to look at in a way. He was toll and well formed, with very blonde hair and blue eyes, and his features, too, unusually good, but the mouth, which a light mustache almost al-most concealed, was a selfish one when seen without its smile of almost effeminate effemi-nate sweetness. Is it not Dr. Holmes who tells us that God made all the features bnt the mouth, and we alone are responsible respon-sible for that? The hand bag he carried bore the name Paul Courtland, but let us take a cursory cur-sory glance at the owner's early history and see what has brought him to Florence. Flor-ence. Though ill-starred in being born a younger son in an English family of rank, nevertheless on attaining his ma- J'ority he came into a goodly fortune loft dm by a relative for whom he was named. This did not last long. Paul Courtland was weak and in Paris most of the time, but for a while all went well; his winning smile earned him many friends. The men courted his society for his ready wit, and the women, whose hearts he so easily won, pitied his misfortunes. mis-fortunes. At last, however, the day came when he awoke to the fact that he must work for his daily bread. He was . gifted with much talent and an almost insane love for painting, so he concluded to set out for Florence, the cradle and grave of so many of our great masters; there, far away from his old wild life, he : would start afresh; the teachings of his dead mother occurred to him and a touch of holy shame crept into his heart. He would reform, and, in fact, he began be-gan already to look upon himself in that light; it pleased him from its very novelty. nov-elty. Arriving there, as we have said, just at dusk, his eye was charmed with the simple grandeur of the city. To tho north of the river Arno the reader may remember the picturesque bits of ruin that axe standing, remains of once mighty . walls. As he approached one of these he paused. Was it the glory of the southern sky that pleased him? Was he dazzled by those wondrous ruby tints? His glance was not toward the heavens, but rosted ou nn Italian girl leaning against the crumbling gray stones. A - rarely beautiful face it was, shadowed , by the heavy black hair; her lips were slightly parted in a smile, and the warm glow of the sunset lighting up the clear olive skin fairly made him tremble lest this lovely vision should fade away, leaving only the ruin in the background. Cautiously, almost reverently, Paul Courtland advanced, bnt still the girl did not move. Across her scarlet peasant dress fell a trailing vine of ivy, and in one little brown hand she held loosely a bunch of drooping water lilies. As the young stranger drew nearer he saw that the child was fast asleep. "Who is she?" he asked in Italian of a passerby. "Tis Beatrice Gonzani, our little flower girl. Surely, signor, you have not been in Florence long? Ah, naughty child! see, she has fallen asleep! What will the poor old grandmother be thinking? think-ing? Beatrice! Beatrice Mia, wake up," and before Courtland could prevent him he had caught her by the arm. The young man turned away; ho wanted want-ed to remember the picture as he had iirst seen it, toned into wondrous harmony har-mony by the setting sun. Securing a room at the inn he retired early, not to deep peacefully, though, but to dream of Beatrice. The artibt had found hia ideal, he would paint a great work, one that would make him famous not only in Florence but throughout Europe. Early the next morning he once more directed his Bteps toward the ruin in the hope of again seeing the beautiful flower girl. Whose fate was it that led him, IJeatrice's or his own? Sho was in her usual place, and as the artist approached he raised his hat courteously. cour-teously. "Good morning, signorina," he said in her native tongue, "I have come to buy Kme of your pretty flowers." "Thank you, signor, which will you have, roses or lilies?' "I prefer the lilies, but what is the matter with them, their heads droop?" " 'Tis because they are sleeping, signor; sig-nor; when the sun comes out brighter they will open their little golden eyes. Bee what a fine bunch this is; that in the j center I call the queen and the others are j paying court to her." "A pretty idea, Beatrice; I will take the lilies and the roses also; can you not tell me some story about them?" And so Paul Courtland talked on; it was not the face nor the pussiouate aenuty of the great Italian eyes that charmed him now; in their place be felt the influence of the low, musicul voice ! and the childlike artlessness of her ways. This was but one of the many visits he paid her; nearly every morning he would meet her at tho old ruined wall, and gradually grad-ually Beatrice began to look for his comingit com-ingit made the day seem loss long. When at last he asked her to pose as a model for him she did not think of refusing; refus-ing; she was glad to please thesignor, who had been so kind to her. He wanted to paint tho flower girl as he had first seen . her on that summer evening, asleep under un-der a wondrous southern sky. So each morning she would come to his studio for a while, wearing the pretty scarlet across her breast, shone a cold blue light as though a tiny star had fallen there from the sky. But it was not a star, it was only a ray of moonlight reflected from a sapplure locket. With a gentlo hand he brushed back the hair and looked earnestly at the girl; it was such a serene face, for the passionate eyes were closed forever now, that at first he hesitated as to who it might be. Then in one hand he saw a bunch of lilies "Yes," he said, " 'tis Beatrice Gonzani, our little flower girl. May tho good God rest her soul!" C. E. D. in Telephone. |