heart-disease--it is the usual reason assigned by medical savants
for these sudden departures out of the world. His loss was regretted
by all, save myself and one other who loved him. We rejoiced, and
still do rejoice, at his release."

I speculated vaguely on the meaning of these last words, but I felt
disinclined to ask any more questions, and Cellini, probably seeing
this, worked on at his sketch without further converse. My eyes were
growing heavy, and the printed words in the "Dead Musician's
Letters" danced before my sight like active little black demons with
thin waving arms and legs. A curious yet not unpleasant drowsiness
stole over me, in which I heard the humming of the bees at the open
window, the singing of the birds, and the voices of people in the
hotel gardens, all united in one continuous murmur that seemed a
long way off. I saw the sunshine and the shadow--I saw the majestic
Leo stretched full length near the easel, and the slight supple form
of Raffaello Cellini standing out in bold outline against the light;
yet all seemed shifting and mingling strangely into a sort of wide
radiance in which there was nothing but varying tints of colour. And
could it have been my fancy, or did I actually SEE the curtain fall
gradually away from my favourite picture, just enough for the face
of the "Angel of Life" to be seen smiling down upon me? I rubbed my
eyes violently, and started to my feet at the sound of the artist's
voice.

"I have tried your patience enough for to-day," he said, and his
words sounded muffled, as though they were being spoken through, a
thick wall. "You can leave me now if you like."

I stood before him mechanically, still holding the book he had lent