THE STORY OF A PICTURE.

 "But where have you come from, Maria ?" he asked
 with a strange expression on his face, as if he had been
 dreaming, and had just awakened.
 His sister's merry laugh was her only answer.
 "C Well, Maria," he said, the fact is, that, when
 after two years I look around me here, I find that I
 have not yet got over my surprise at my good fortune."
 "Indeed !" she answered with a bright smile; "I
 am quite at home here. Ever since I came here, I felt
 as if I were still in what you always call our home-the
 cottage at Castaro."
 How can that be, Maria ? This is surely a very
 different place from the old cottage."
 I cannot think so, Leo. They seem to me the
 very same. It is not the particular place, the dull
 stone walls, that we call home; my home is wherever
 you are, with dear Francesca, be it a cottage or a
 palace. Yes, Leonardo, wherever we three are to-
 gether, I shall feel exactly as I felt at Castaro; so long
 as we can love and be beloved, all the world's wealth
 would indeed be to us but an idle dream."
 You are right, Mvaria," he said, as he gazed on
the lovely face before him, that looked more beautiful
than ever with the enthusiasm of her sweet words.
"Yes, you are right ;" and as he kissed her calm
brow, he added, Even with Francesca this would
scarcely seem like home, if you, Maria, were not here to
make it happy. But no," he went on, with a smile,
"I am selfish, when I speak like this, while I know
that you will be going away one of these fine morn-
ings."
 "CNo, no, Leo," she replied, while her dark eyes
fell on the gay blossoms that bordered the path; "so
long as my presence near you makes you happier, this
is my home."