“I think I had a parting word to give you,” I said at last, meeting his gaze frankly; “but I seem to have forgotten what it was.”  Cellini smiled gravely.

“Do not trouble to think about it, mademoiselle.  I am unworthy the effort on your part.”

A flash of vivid light crossed my eyes for a second, and I exclaimed eagerly: 

“I remember now!  It was ‘Dieu vous garde’ signor!”

He bent his head reverentially.

“Merci mille fois, mademoiselle!  Dieu vous garde—­vous aussi.  Au revoir.”

And clasping my hand with a light yet friendly pressure, he closed the door of his room behind me.  Once alone in the passage, the sense of high elation and contentment that had just possessed me began gradually to decrease.  I had not become actually dispirited, but a languid feeling of weariness oppressed me, and my limbs ached as though I had walked incessantly for many miles.  I went straight to my own room.  I consulted my watch; it was half-past one, the hour at which the hotel luncheon was usually served.  Mrs. Everard had evidently not returned from her drive.  I did not care to attend the table d’hote alone; besides, I had no inclination to eat.  I drew down the window-blinds to shut out the brilliancy of the beautiful Southern sunlight, and throwing myself on my bed I determined to rest quietly till Amy came back.  I had brought the “Letters of a Dead Musician” away with me from Cellini’s studio, and I began to read, intending to keep myself awake by this means.  But I found I could not fix my attention on the page, nor could I think at all connectedly.  Little by little my eyelids closed; the book dropped from my nerveless hand; and in a few minutes I was in a deep and tranquil slumber.

CHAPTER III.

Three visions.

Roses, roses!  An interminable chain of these royal blossoms, red and white, wreathed by the radiant fingers of small rainbow-winged creatures as airy as moonlight mist, as delicate as thistledown!  They cluster round me with smiling faces and eager eyes; they place the end of their rose-garland in my hand, and whisper, “Follow!” Gladly I obey, and hasten onward.  Guiding myself by the fragrant chain I hold, I pass through a labyrinth of trees, whose luxuriant branches quiver with the flight and song of birds.  Then comes a sound of waters; the riotous rushing of a torrent unchecked, that leaps sheer down from rocks a thousand feet high, thundering forth the praise of its own beauty as it tosses in the air triumphant crowns of silver spray.  How the living diamonds within it shift, and change, and sparkle!  Fain would I linger to watch this magnificence; but the coil of roses still unwinds before me, and the fairy voices still cry, “Follow!” I press on.  The trees grow thicker; the songs of the birds cease; the light around me grows pale and subdued.  In the far distance I see a golden