In making arrangements with him, and in attending to various little matters of business, the hours slipped rapidly away, and in the afternoon, at the time appointed, I made my way to Ferrari's studio.

I knew it of old--I had no need to consult the card he had left with me on which the address was written.

It was a queer, quaintly built little place, situated at the top of an ascending road--its windows commanded an extensive view of the bay and the surrounding scenery.

Many and many a happy hour had I passed there before my marriage reading some favorite book or watching Ferrari as he painted his crude landscapes and figures, most of which I good-naturedly purchased as soon as completed.
The little porch over-grown with star-jasmine looked strangely and sorrowfully familiar to my eyes, and my heart experienced a sickening pang of regret for the past, as I pulled the bell and heard the little tinkling sound to which I was so well accustomed.

Ferrari himself opened the door to me with eager rapidity--he looked excited and radiant.
"Come in, come in!" he cried with effusive cordiality.