the way. But if he is lazily inclined, he does not stir till the
train reaches its destination. At the end of every six months or so,
the railway authorities send the bill of Leo's journeyings in to his
master, when it is always settled without difficulty."

"And who IS his master?" I ventured to ask.

Cellini's face grew serious and absorbed, and his eyes were full of
grave contemplation as he answered:

"His master, mademoiselle, is MY master--one who among men, is
supremely intelligent; among teachers, absolutely unselfish; among
thinkers, purely impersonal; among friends, inflexibly faithful. To
him I owe everything--even life itself. For him no sacrifice, no
extreme devotion would be too great, could I hope thereby to show my
gratitude. But he is as far above human thanks or human rewards as
the sun is above the sea. Not here, not now, dare I say to him, MY
FRIEND, BEHOLD HOW MUCH I LOVE THEE! such language would be all too
poor and unmeaning; but hereafter--who knows?----" and he broke off
abruptly with a half-sigh. Then, as if forcing himself to change the
tenor of his thoughts, he continued in a kind tone: "But,
mademoiselle, I am wasting your time, and am taking no advantage of
the favour you have shown me by your presence to-day. Will you seat
yourself here?" and he placed an elaborately carved oaken settee in
one corner of the studio, opposite his own easel. "I should be sorry
to fatigue you at all," he went on; "do you care for reading?"

I answered eagerly in the affirmative, and he handed me a volume
bound in curiously embossed leather, and ornamented with silver
clasps. It was entitled "Letters of a Dead Musician."