ory of music, and the sense of being possessed was one welcome for Tito, late as he was, and by actual vibrating harmonies. Romola's gentle voice was another.

He just turned and kissed her, when she took off his mantle, then went toward a high-backed chair placed for him near the fire, threw himself into it, and flung away his cap, saying, not peevishly, but in a fatigued tone of remonstrance, as he gave a slight shudder,

"Romola, I wish you would give up sitting in this library. Surely our own rooms are pleasanter in this chill weather."

Romola felt hurt. She had never seen Tito so indifferent in his manner; he was usually full of lively solicitous attention. And she had thought so much of his return to her after the long day's absence! He must be very weary.

But that transient emotion, strong as it was, seemed to lie quite outside the inner chamber and sanctuary of her life. She was not thinking of Fra Girolamo now; she was listening anxiously for the step of her husband. During these three months of their double solitude she had thought of each day as an epoch in which their union might begin to be more perfect. She was conscious of being sometimes a little too sad or too urgent about what concerned her father's memory—a little too critical or coldly silent when Tito narrated the things that were said and done in the world he frequented—a little too hasty in suggesting that by living quite simply as her father had done, they might become rich enough "I wonder you have forgotten, Tito," she anto pay Bernardo del Nero, and reduce the diffi-swered, looking at him, anxiously, as if she culties about the library. It was not possible wanted to read an excuse for him in the signs of that Tito could feel so strongly on this last point bodily fatigue. "You know I am making the as she did, and it was asking a great deal from catalogue on the new plan that my father wished him to give up luxuries for which he really la- for; you have not time to help me, so I must bored. The next time Tito came home she would work at it closely." be careful to suppress all those promptings that seemed to isolate her from him. Romola was laboring, as every loving woman must, to subdue her nature to her husband's. The great need of her heart compelled her to strangle, with desperate resolution, every rising impulse of suspicion, pride, and resentment; she felt equal to any self-infliction that would save her from ceasing to love. That would have been like the hide-him to feel a certain repulsion toward a woman ous nightmare in which the world had seemed to break away all round her, and leave her feet overhanging the darkness. Romola had never distinctly imagined such a future for herself; she was only beginning to feel the presence of effort in that clinging trust which had once been mere repose.

Tito, instead of meeting Romola's glance, closed his eyes and rubbed his hands over his face and hair. He felt he was behaving unlike himself, but he would make amends to-morrow. The terrible resurrection of secret fears, which, if Romola had known them, would have alienated her from him forever, caused him to feel an alienation already begun between them-caused

from whose mind he was in danger. The feeling had taken hold of him unawares, and he was vexed with himself for behaving in this new cold way to her. He could not suddenly command any affectionate looks or words; he could only exert himself to say what might serve as an ex

cuse.

"I am not well, Romola; you must not be surprised if I am peevish."

"Ah, you have had so much to tire you to

and laying her arm on his chest while she put his hair back caressingly.

Suddenly she drew her arm away with a start and a gaze of alarmed inquiry.

"What have you got on under your tunic, Tito? Something as hard as iron."

She waited and listened long, for Tito had not come straight home after leaving Niccolò Caparra, and it was more than two hours after the time when he was crossing the Ponte Ruba-day," said Romola, kneeling down close to him, conte that Romola heard the great door of the court turning on its hinges, and hastened to the head of the stone steps. There was a lamp hanging over the stairs, and they could see each other distinctly as he ascended. The eighteen months had produced a more definable change in Romola's face than in Tito's: the expression was more subdued, less cold, and more beseeching, and, as the pink flush overspread her face now, in her joy that the long waiting was at an end, she was much lovelier than on the day when Tito had first seen her. On that day any on-looker would have said that Romola's nature was made to command, and Tito's to bend; yet now Romola's mouth was quivering a little, and there was some timidity in her glance.

He made an effort to smile, as she said,

"It is iron-it is chain armor," he said at once. He was prepared for the surprise and the question, and he spoke quietly, as of something that he was not hurried to explain.

"There was some unexpected danger to-day, then ?" said Romola, in a tone of conjecture. "You had it lent to you for the procession ?"

"No; it is my own. I shall be obliged to wear it constantly for some time."

"What is it that threatens you, my Tito?" said Romola, looking terrified, and clinging to

"My Tito, you are tired; it has been a fa- him again. tiguing day is it not true ?"

:

Maso was there, and no more was said until they had crossed the ante-chamber and closed the door of the library behind them. The wood was burning brightly on the great dogs; that

Every one is threatened in these times who is not a rabid enemy of the Medici. Don't look distressed, my Romola; this armor will make me safe against covert attacks."

Tito put his hand on her neck and smiled.

This little dialogue about the armor had broken | their position and their extended family connecthrough the new crust, and made a channel for the old sweet habit of kindness.

"But my godfather, then," said Romola; "is not he, too, in danger? And he takes no precautions-ought he not? since he must surely be in more danger than you, who have so little influence compared with him."

tions, which spread among all parties, while I am a Greek that nobody would avenge.'

"But, Tito, is it a fear of some particular person, or only a vague sense of danger that has made you think of wearing this?" Romola was unable to repel the idea of a degrading fear in Tito which mingled itself with her anxiety.

"I have had special threats," said Tito, "but "II must beg you to be silent on the subject, my Romola. I shall consider that you have broken my confidence if you mention it to your godfather."

"It is just because I am less important that I am in more danger," said Tito, readily. am suspected constantly of being an envoy. And men like Messer Bernardo are protected by

FOUR days later Romola was on her way to the house of Piero di Cosimo, in the Via Gualfonda. Some of the streets through which she had to pass were lined with Frenchmen who were gazing at Florence, and with Florentines who were gazing at the French, and the gaze was not on either side entirely friendly and ad"Yes, dearest; never mind now. But is miring. The first nation in Europe, of necesthere any more hope that things will end peace-sity finding itself, when out of its own country, ably for Florence-that the Republic will not in the presence of general inferiority, naturally get into fresh troubles ?"

assumed an air of conscious pre-eminence; and the Florentines, who had taken such pains to play the host amiably, were getting into the worst humor with their too superior guests.

For after the first smiling compliments and festivities were over-after wondrous Mysteries with unrivaled machinery of floating clouds and Tito looked startled; he had immediately angels had been presented in churches-after

the royal guest had honored Florentine dames "I know you like these things when you can with much of his Most Christian ogling at balls have them without trouble. Confess you do." and suppers, and business had begun to be talked "Yes, when they come to me as easily as the of-it appeared that the new Charlemagne re- light does," said Piero, folding his arms and garded Florence as a conquered city, inasmuch looking down at the sweetmeats as Romola unas he had entered it with his lance in rest, talk-covered them and glanced at him archly. “And ed of leaving his viceroy behind him, and had they are come along with the light now," he thoughts of bringing back the Medici. Singular added, lifting his eyes to her face and hair with logic this appeared to be on the part of an elect a painter's admiration, as her hood, dragged by instrument of God! since the policy of Piero de' the weight of her veil, fell backward. Medici, disowned by the people, had been the only offense of Florence against the majesty of France. And Florence was determined not to submit. The determination was being expressed very strongly in consultations of citizens inside the Old Palace, and it was beginning to show itself on the broad flags of the streets and piazze wherever there was an opportunity of flouting an insolent Frenchman. Under these circumstances the streets were not altogether a pleasant promenade for well-born women; but Romola, shrouded in her black veil and mantle, and with old Maso by her side, felt secure enough from impertinent observation.

mo.

"But I know what the sweetmeats are for," he went on; "they are to stop my mouth while you scold me. Well, go on into the next room and you will see I've done something to the picture since you saw it, though it's not finished yet. But I didn't promise, you know: I take care not to promise:

"Chi promette e non mantiene
L'anima sua non va mai bene.'"

Not

The door opening on the wild garden was closed now, and the painter was at work. at Romola's picture, however. That was standing on the floor, propped against the wall, and Piero stooped to lift it, that he might carry it into the proper light. But in lifting away this picture he had disclosed another-the oil-sketch of Tito, to which he had made an important ad

ing with astonishment,

"That is Tito!"

And she was impatient to visit Piero di CosiA copy of her father's portrait as Edipus, which he had long ago undertaken to make for her, was not yet finished; and Piero was so un-dition within the last few days. It was so much certain in his work-sometimes, when the de- smaller than the other picture that it stood far mand was not peremptory, laying aside a picture within it, and Piero, apt to forget where he had for months; sometimes thrusting it into a corner placed any thing, was not aware of what he had or coffer, where it was likely to be utterly for- revealed as, peering at some detail in the paintgotten-that she felt it necessary to watch over ing which he held in his hands, he went to place his progress. She was a favorite with the paint-it on an easel. But Romola exclaimed, flusher, and he was inclined to fulfill any wish of hers, but no general inclination could be trusted as a safeguard against his sudden whims. He had told her the week before that the picture would perhaps be finished by this time; and Romola was nervously anxious to have in her possession a copy of the only portrait existing of her father in the days of his blindness, lest his image should grow dim in her mind. The sense of defect in her devotedness to him made her cling with all the force of compunction as well as affection to the duties of memory. Love does not aim simply at the conscious good of the beloved object; it is not satisfied without perfect loyalty of heart; it aims at its own complete

ness.

Romola, by special favor, was allowed to intrude on the painter without previous notice. She lifted the iron slide and called Piero in a flute-like tone, as the little maiden with the eggs had done in Tito's presence. Piero was quick in answering, but when he opened the door he accounted for his quickness in a manner that was not complimentary.

"Ah, Madonna Romola, it is you! I thought my eggs were come; I wanted them."

"I have brought you something better than hard eggs, Piero. Maso has got a little basket full of cakes and confetti for you," said Romola, smiling, as she put back her veil. She took the basket from Maso, and stepping into the house, said,

Piero looked round, and gave a silent shrug. He was vexed at his own forgetfulness.

She was still looking at the sketch in astonishment; but presently she turned toward the painter and said, with puzzled alarm,

"What a strange picture! When did you paint it? What does it mean ?”

"A mere fancy of mine," said Piero, lifting off his skull-cap, scratching his head, and making the usual grimace by which he avoided the betrayal of any feeling. "I wanted a handsome young face for it, and your husband's was just the thing.'

He went forward, stooped down to the picture, and, lifting it away with its back to Romola, pretended to be giving it a passing examination before putting it aside as a thing not good enough to show.

But Romola, who had the fact of the armor in her mind, and was penetrated by this strange coincidence of things which associated Tito with the idea of fear, went to his elbow and said,

"Don't put it away; let me look again. That man with the rope round his neck-I saw him-I saw you come to him in the Duomo. What was it that made you put him into a picture with Tito ?"

Piero saw no better resource than to tell part of the truth.

"It was a mere accident. The man was run

ning away-running up the steps, and caught | duced the very impression he had sought to prehold of your husband: I suppose he had stum-vent-that there was really something unpleasbled. I happened to be there and saw it, and I ant, something disadvantageous to Tito, in the thought the savage-looking old fellow was a good subject. But it's worth nothing-it's only a freakish daub of mine," Piero ended, contemptuously, moving the sketch away with an air of decision, and putting it on a high shell. "Come and look at the Edipus.'

He had shown a little too much anxiety in putting the sketch out of her sight, and had pro

circumstances out of which the picture arose. But this impression silenced her: her pride and delicacy shrank from questioning further, where questions might seem to imply that she could entertain even a slight suspicion against her husband. She merely said, in as quiet a tone as she could,

"He was a strange, piteous-looking man,