An hour passed away, and a messenger came from the duke bearing a letter to the Count Borelloni.  It was a request that in an hour he should come to the Pitti Palace.  “For,” said he, “I have lately received as an accession to my paintings, a picture of such rare excellence, such exquisite beauty in conception, and wonderful skill in execution, that I set no bounds to my joy in obtaining it.  Knowing your passion for art, I have sent to you this notice of its reception.”

The count hastened to prepare for his departure.  He wondered what was the nature of the piece of which the duke had spoken so highly.

“It must be a wonderful painting,” said he, “for the duke is usually sparing in his praise.  It is probably one of Rafaelle or Guido.  Well, I will soon see it.”

Stella felt a joy which words could not utter.  She recollected all that Mario had told her of his picture, and of the duke’s visit, of his flattering words of commendation-and she believed at once that his picture was the one he spoke of.

The count went off, and at the expiration of the hour entered the palace.  He was received by the duke.  He was led through the long suite of rooms where the splendor of royal magnificence is all unnoticed amid the charms of priceless paintings, for there the Madonna of Rafaelle tells of the boundless depths of a mother’s love, and there Murillo’s Madonna breathes forth virgin purity.

At length the duke stopped before a picture covered by a screen.  He turned to the count, and saying, “Now Borelloni prepare for a surprise,” drew aside the curtain which covered it.

The count started, for not among all the galleries of Italy, not among the priceless collections of Rome, had his eyes ever rested upon so wonderful, so living a picture!  It was a living, a breathing form, which there, drawing aside a hanging, seemed to come forth to meet the gazer.  Upon the countenance there was the perfection of ideal beauty.  Loveliness, angelic, heavenly, was radiant upon the face, and that face was one well known to him, for Stella stood there, but Stella-glorified and immortal.

“Wonderful!  Miraculous!” burst from his lips.  “It is the creation of a god.  It is not the work of man!  Who is he?  Where is he?  The genius who formed this?  How could it happen that it should be Stella, my daughter?  Who is the artist?”

“He is here in the next apartment,” said the duke, and going to the door he spoke to some one.  He returned, leading the artist.

“This is he,” said the duke.  “Mario Fostello.”

“Mario!” cried the count.  “Mario, my preserver!” And he ran up to him and embraced him.

“Mario, is all forgotten?  Forgive me.  But I wrong you in asking it.”

The duke looked on in wonder, and could not conceal his surprise.  But the count begged him to excuse his emotion.  “Would you know the cause of it?” said he.

“I am all curiosity.”