Somehow he felt less nervous when he began to speak of the library and its contents and the words came more easily to him.  With a little encouragement he might even become loquacious.  In spite of his face, Faustina began to feel an interest in him.

“It must be very hard work,” she remarked.  “Do you like it?  Did you never want to do anything else?  I should think you would grow tired of being always alone.”

“I am very patient,” answered Meschini humbly.  “And I am used to it.  I grew accustomed to the life when I was young.”

“You say the collection is valuable.  Are there any very beautiful books?  I would like to see some of them.”

The fair young creature sat down upon one of the high carved chairs at the end of a table.  Meschini went to the other side of the hall and unlocked one of the drawers which lined the lower part of the bookcases to the height of three or four feet.  Each was heavily carved with the Montevarchi arms in high relief.  It was in these receptacles that the precious manuscripts were kept in their cases.  He returned bringing a small square volume of bound manuscript, and laid it before Faustina.

“This is worth an enormous sum,” he said.  “It is the only complete one in the world.  There is an imperfect copy in the library of the Vatican.”

“What is it?”

“It is the Montevarchi Dante, the oldest in existence.”

Faustina turned over the leaves curiously, and admired the even writing though she could not read many of the words, for the ancient characters were strange to her.  It was a wonderful picture that the couple made in the great hall.  On every side the huge carved bookcases of walnut, black with age, rose from the floor to the spring of the vault, their dark faces reflected in the highly-polished floor of coloured marble.  Across the ancient tables a ray of sunlight fell from the high clerestory window.  In the centre, the two figures with the old manuscript between them; Faustina’s angel head in a high light against the dusky background, as she bent forward a little, turning the yellow pages with her slender, transparent fingers, the black folds of her full gown making heavy lines of drapery, graceful by her grace, and rendered less severe by a sort of youthfulness that seemed to pervade them, and that emanated from herself.  Beside her, the bent frame of the broken down librarian, in a humble and respectful attitude, his long arms hanging down by his sides, his shabby black coat almost dragging to his heels, his head bent forward as he looked at the pages.  All his features seemed to have grown more sharp and yellow and pointed, and there was now a deep red flush in the upper part of his cheeks.  A momentary light shone in his gray eyes, from beneath the bushy brows, a light of intelligence such as had formerly characterised them especially, brought back now perhaps by the effort to fix his attention upon the precious book.  His large,