he met with.  He had that wholesome, happy look, so uncommon in our arid countrymen,—­a look hardly to be found except where figs and oranges ripen in the open air.  A kindly climate to grow up in, a religion which takes your money and gives you a stamped ticket good at Saint Peter’s box office, a roomy chest and a good pair of lungs in it, an honest digestive apparatus, a lively temperament, a cheerful acceptance of the place in life assigned to one by nature and circumstance,—­these are conditions under which life may be quite comfortable to endure, and certainly is very pleasant to contemplate.  All these conditions were united in Paolo.  He was the easiest; pleasantest creature to talk with that one could ask for a companion.  His southern vivacity, his amusing English, his simplicity and openness, made him friends everywhere.

It seemed as if it would be a very simple matter to get the history of his master out of this guileless and unsophisticated being.  He had been tried by all the village experts.  The rector had put a number of well-studied careless questions, which failed of their purpose.  The old librarian of the town library had taken note of all the books he carried to his master, and asked about his studies and pursuits.  Paolo found it hard to understand his English, apparently, and answered in the most irrelevant way.  The leading gossip of the village tried her skill in pumping him for information.  It was all in vain.

His master’s way of life was peculiar,—­in fact, eccentric.  He had hired rooms in an old-fashioned three-story house.  He had two rooms in the second and third stories of this old wooden building:  his study in the second, his sleeping-room in the one above it.  Paolo lived in the basement, where he had all the conveniences for cooking, and played the part of chef for his master and himself.  This was only a part of his duty, for he was a man-of-all-work, purveyor, steward, chambermaid,—­as universal in his services for one man as Pushee at the Anchor Tavern used to be for everybody.

It so happened that Paolo took a severe cold one winter’s day, and had such threatening symptoms that he asked the baker, when he called, to send the village physician to see him.  In the course of his visit the doctor naturally inquired about the health of Paolo’s master.

“Signor Kirkwood well,—­molto bene,” said Paolo.  “Why does he keep out of sight as he does?” asked the doctor.

“He always so,” replied Paolo.  “Una antipatia.”

Whether Paolo was off his guard with the doctor, whether he revealed it to him as to a father confessor, or whether he thought it time that the reason of his master’s seclusion should be known, the doctor did not feel sure.  At any rate, Paolo was not disposed to make any further revelations.  Una antipatia,—­an antipathy,—­that was all the doctor learned.  He thought the matter over, and the more he reflected the more he was puzzled.  What could an antipathy be that made a young man a recluse!  Was it a dread of blue sky and open air, of the smell of flowers, or some electrical impression to which he was unnaturally sensitive?