"Lillian, Lillian, I've such news for you! Come and hear a charming
little romance, and prepare to see the hero of it!" cried Maud
Churchill, rushing into her friend's pretty boudoir one day in the
height of the season.

Lillian lay on a couch, rather languid after a ball, and listlessly
begged Maud to tell her story, for she was dying to be amused.

"Well my, dear, just listen and you'll be as enthusiastic as I am,"
cried Maud. And throwing her bonnet on one chair, her parasol on
another, and her gloves anywhere, she settled herself on the couch and
began: "You remember reading in the papers, some time ago, that fine
account of the young man who took part in the Italian revolution and did
that heroic thing with the bombshell?"

"Yes, what of him?" asked Lillian, sitting up.

"He is my hero, and we are to see him tonight."

"Go on, go on! Tell all, and tell it quickly," she cried.

"You know the officers were sitting somewhere, holding a council, while
the city (I forget the name) was being bombarded, and how a shell came
into the midst of them, how they sat paralyzed, expecting it to burst,
and how this young man caught it up and ran out with it, risking his own
life to save theirs?"

"Yes, yes, I remember!" And Lillian's listless face kindled at the
recollection.