“Stella,” he said, in deeply musical tones—­“Stella, you know all my love and the desires of my soul.  All are fixed upon you.  Fame and glory I only wish for as the means of obtaining you.  But O, hard is the task and difficult is it for an unknown artist to gain the hand of the proud Count Borelloni’s daughter.  I would not grieve you by taking you without his consent, even if I were able.”

“Bless you!  God bless you, my noble Mario for those noble words!  Do not seek to draw me from him.  Willingly would I give up all-wealth, and power and all-to live in obscurity with you.  But my father loves me so fondly, that if I were to leave him, he would die.  Let us wait, and perhaps he may overcome his prejudice toward you.”

“He dislikes me because I am poor and unknown.  But,” exclaimed Mario, with a haughty glance, “the time may come and will come, when he will not he ashamed to acknowledge me.  Art can ennoble the poor and obscure.”

“I know you will become great, Mario.  I know that your name will be spoken with honor, and that before long.  When I first saw you here in Florence, when I afterwards heard you tell me your love as we walked by the waters of Lake Perugia, I knew that you would become famous.”

“And then, if I ever gain fame and honor, all shall be laid at your feet, Stella.”

“You can wait then, and seek for fame, Mario, to give you acceptance in my father’s eyes.  You can wait, for you know my constancy.”

“I know it, and I would trust it always.  I know your noble soul, Stella, its lofty qualities lead me captive, and I worship you as a divinity.”

The impassioned youth bent down before her, but she prevented him, and suddenly asked: 

“How do you proceed with your painting?”

“Well, I am proceeding well, for I am inspired by the thoughts of Stella.”

“Then I inspire you, do I?”

“O Stella, you fill my soul with new conceptions of angelic beauty, and while your image dwells in my mind, I look back upon it and place every feature, every expression living upon the canvass!  If this picture is completed, your father’s love for art will make him respect the creator of this new piece.”

“And he will honor you and love you.”

“It must be completed in two or three months now.  I seek new ideas of loveliness from you, Stella, and then my picture receives them.”

“And suppose you fail, Mario.” said Stella.

“Fail?  O I cannot.  But if I do, then will I despair?  No, I will go to Rome and devote myself entirely to art.  But it is late, Stella.  We must go, and I will see you home before your father returns.”

And the gardens of Boboli were empty.