"When it does come," said Hilda, with a smile, "you will find that it is
some one else. I can assure you Signor Bruno is an Italian, and beyond
that he is the nicest old gentleman imaginable."

"Well," replied Christian. "In the meantime I vote that we do not
trouble ourselves about him."

The subject was dropped, and not again referred to until after they had
reached home, when Hilda informed her mother that Signor Bruno had
returned.

"Oh, indeed," was the reply. "I am very glad. You must ask
him to dinner to-morrow evening. Is he not a nice old man, Christian?"

"Very," replied Christian, almost before the words were out of her lips.
"Yes, very nice." He looked across the table towards Hilda with an
absolutely expressionless composure.

During the following day, which he passed with Sidney and Stanley at sea
in a little cutter belonging to the Carews, Christian learnt, without
asking many questions, all that Signor Bruno had vouchsafed in the way
of information respecting himself. It was a short story and an old one,
such as many a white-haired Italian could tell to-day. A life, income,
and energy devoted to a cause which never had much promise of reward.
Failure, exile, and a life closing in a land where the blue skies of
Italy are known only by name, where Maraschino is at a premium, and long
black cigars almost unobtainable.

Hilda was engaged on this day to lunch and spend the afternoon with Mrs.