Etheridge."

Her lips quivered again, but still, quietly and simply, she said:

"You do not know me? I am Stella—your niece, Stella."

The old man threw up his head and stared at her, and she saw that he trembled.

"Stella—my niece—Harold's child!"

[3]

[3]

"Yes," she said, in a low voice, "I am Stella."

"But, merciful Heaven!" he exclaimed, with agitation, "how did you come here? Why—I thought you were at the school there in Florence—why—have you come here alone?"

Her eyes wandered from his face to the exquisite scene beyond, and at that moment her look was strangely like his own.

"Yes, I came alone, uncle," she said.

"Merciful Heaven!" he murmured again, sinking into his chair. "But why—why?"

The question is not unkindly put, full, rather, of a troubled perplexity and bewilderment.

Stella's eyes returned to his face.

"I was unhappy, uncle," she said, simply.

"Unhappy!" he echoed, gently—"unhappy! My child, you are too young to know what the word means. Tell me"—and he put his long white hand on her arm.

The touch was the one thing needed to draw them together. With a sudden, yet not abrupt movement, she slid down at his side and leant her head on his arm.

"Yes, I was very unhappy, uncle. They were hard and unkind. They meant well perhaps, but it was not to be borne. And then—then, after papa died, it was so lonely, so lonely. There was no one—no one to care for me—to care whether one lived or died. Uncle, I bore it as long as I could, and then 

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