It was growing dark, and the form of the singer could barely be discerned upon a bench under a great oak.

The voice was that of a man, and his song was an Italian air from one of Verdi's operas.

He sang in a low tone, as if he were simply amusing himself and did not wish to disturb the rest of the world.
[Illustration: MRS.

CHESTER] "That must be the Italian who is stopping here for the night," she said.

"We do not generally take such people; but he spoke so civilly, and said it was so hard to get lodging for his bear--" "His bear!" I exclaimed.
"Oh yes," she answered, with a little laugh, "he has a bear with him.
I suppose it dances, and so makes a living for its master.