plums, and apricots, and a plate full of particularly delicate figs, of
last year's growth. The butler showing his white head at the door, his
master beckoned to him. "Tomaso, bring some Sunshine!" said he. The
readiest method of obeying this order, one might suppose, would have
been to fling wide the green window-blinds, and let the glow of the
summer noon into the carefully shaded room. But, at Monte Beni, with
provident caution against the wintry days, when there is little
sunshine, and the rainy ones, when there is none, it was the hereditary
custom to keep their Sunshine stored away in the cellar. Old Tomaso
quickly produced some of it in a small, straw-covered flask, out of
which he extracted the cork, and inserted a little cotton wool, to
absorb the olive oil that kept the precious liquid from the air.

"This is a wine," observed the Count, "the secret of making which has
been kept in our family for centuries upon centuries; nor would it avail
any man to steal the secret, unless he could also steal the vineyard, in
which alone the Monte Beni grape can be produced. There is little else
left me, save that patch of vines. Taste some of their juice, and tell
me whether it is worthy to be called Sunshine! for that is its name."
"A glorious name, too!" cried the sculptor. "Taste it," said Donatello,
filling his friend's glass, and pouring likewise a little into his own.
"But first smell its fragrance; for the wine is very lavish of it, and
will scatter it all abroad."

"Ah, how exquisite!" said Kenyon. "No other wine has a bouquet like
this. The flavor must be rare, indeed, if it fulfill the promise of this
fragrance, which is like the airy sweetness of youthful hopes, that no
realities will ever satisfy!"

This invaluable liquor was of a pale golden hue, like other of the