THE STORY OF A PICTURE. it had become less and less. Pietro's words, his looks, his secret study in the summer evenings, had left upon her mind an impression which no change could have effaced. When she was but a child she had noticed that he was unlike any one who had ever spoken to her; he had taught her to love Nature, to read the secrets that lie hidden in every rock, and stream, and tree-yea, in every blade of grass, in every flower. All this seemed wonderful to her now-more wonderful still when she reflected that at the time he was an unfriended, untaught peasant boy, and she a gay and thoughtless child. How much she would like to see him again, if it were only to know his fate, and how he had disappeared so suddenly But she thought of him now as she would have thought of him if he were not living, imagining how it would be if she could meet him and speak to him, but not cherishing the least hope that her dreams would ever be realized. This, then, still cast a shadow over Maria, when she was alone-not whhen se was with Leonardo or Fran- cesca, for then she was as cheerful as ever; if she had been otherwise, her brother's boast would not have been a true one, for he had often said that, since the Villa di Selvico had become their home, no one within it had passed a sad or thoughtful hour. It was a morning in spring, and the splendid gar- dens around the house were made more delightful still by the clear half-warm sunshine, combined with a light breeze, which from time to time rustled the new foliage on trees and shrubs. The dew was scarcely dried on the early but choice flowers, that everywhere met the eye, arranged with exquisite taste and skill, so as at once to attract and please. Wherever the walks divided, statues were placed, many of them being considered very fine specimens of the sculptor's art, and now look-