In the courtyard of the painter Agnolo’s house in Milan, the sunshine fell strong and golden, sparkling on the fountain that rose in the centre from its rough stone basin, and throwing the waxen blossoms of the chestnut into brilliant relief against the sapphire sky.

The courtyard was of stone. Around three sides ran the wall, one with its door into the street; opposite was a large garden, entered by an archway, the wicket in which stood always ajar.

The fourth side of the quadrangle was formed by the dwelling-house, which stood with its back to the ivied walls, itself a long, low building, the upper half of which, jutting above the lower, was supported on pillars of carved stone.

Around the bottom wall ran a wide border of plants, some climbing, others heavy with brilliant blossoms, trailing along the ground, and in the cool, blue shadows in the recess formed by the projecting storey were large pots of spreading ferns, vivid green, mingled with the spikes of bright scarlet flowers.

The basin of the fountain in the centre was velvet green with moss, and over the limpid water there spread the flat leaves of water-lilies. Above the wall rose the sweet-smelling chestnuts, spreading their fan-like foliage and snowy blossoms, tier upon tier, against the brilliant sky, and through the low arch, trellised with roses, the garden stretched, a bewildering mass of colour, white, mauve, yellow, pink, blue and red, into the soft distance, a swaying mass of trees. It was late afternoon, and the shadows were lengthening, as out of the house, the door of which stood open, came the little painter. He stepped into the, sunshine, mopping his face and shaking his clothes.

From head to foot he was a mass of green slime, his doublet torn, his hands scratched, his face hot and perspiring. After a few vain attempts to remove the dirt that clung to him, he looked around with a rueful countenance.

‘Graziosa!’ he called. ‘Graziosa!’

The lattice of an upper window was thrown open, and Graziosa looked out.

At sight of her father she laughed. ‘Hast thou been down thy passage again, Father?’ she called from the window.

Agnolo made a wry face good-humouredly. ‘That I have,’ he returned, ‘and fell into a pond at the other end’

‘The other end!’ echoed his daughter. ‘Then you got through?’

Vistarnini rubbed his damaged hands together with satisfaction. ‘Aye,’ he said with a smile, ‘after tearing my clothes, fighting briars, stepping on toads, stifling with dust, and pitching on my face in the dark, I—’

‘Fell into a pond!’ laughed Graziosa.

‘Got to the other end,’ cried the little painter. ‘Got to the other end!’ Graziosa disappeared from the window, and came running into the courtyard, a slender figure in scarlet.

‘Got to the other end,’ repeated Vistarnini breathlessly. ‘A noble underground passage, Graziosa, that is what we have discovered, large enough to admit an army if need were, and with a concealed opening, leading out through a cave to the midst of —’

‘A pond,’ suggested Graziosa with a glance at his garments. ‘A wood — the pond was a mere accessory; a wood, some two miles beyond the town’

‘Then since this end is reached from our house, we are the only ones who can gain access to it?’ said Graziosa.

We are,’ returned the painter proudly. ‘And, Graziosa, we will remain so.’

‘Thou mean’st thou wilt tell no one?’ asked his daughter. ‘No; it will be very useful. I hate to be for ever passing the gate, giving accounts of myself to every saucy soldier. In time of need, should there be a war then perchance we can speak of it.’

‘I think we should speak of it now,’ said Graziosa thoughtfully. ‘I think we should tell the Duke.’

‘Tell the weathercock!’ said Vistarnini. ‘I tell thee it will be useful; the tolls nearly ruin me — and now I can bring everything I buy outside in through the secret passage.’

”Tis scarce honest, Father’

Agnolo laughed.

‘I discovered it,’ he said. ‘No one knew of it, and the Duke can well spare my tolls.’

‘Meanwhile change thy dress, Father,’ laughed Graziosa, ‘and thou always dost as thou thinkest. I have no more to say.’ Then, as Vistarnini moved toward the house, his daughter called after him softly:

‘I may tell Ambrogio, Father?’

‘Thou mayst do no such thing,’ returned Agnolo. ‘His conscience would prick him — he is over grave and honest —’

‘He is not,’ said Graziosa indignantly. ‘I mean — he would not tell — I am sure he will not tell!’

‘And so am I— for he will never know,’ said Agnolo with a smile. ‘Now thy promise, Graziosa, that thou tellest no one, not even thy precious Ambrogio — and the first thing I smuggle through shall be a new silk gown for thee!’

Graziosa laughed, and seated herself on the edge of the basin. ‘I promise,’ she called. ‘But as for the gown, thou couldst have brought me that in any case!’

Vistarnini turned into the house, and silence again fell on the sunny courtyard.

Graziosa looked musingly at the gate, then down at her bare arm and sighed.

Two pet doves whirled down from the chestnuts and strutted across the courtyard, with a show of white tails.

Graziosa noticed them suddenly, in the midst of her dreaming, and was rising to get their evening meal, when the little painter, clean and reclothed, bustled out of the house, carrying a flat dish.

‘Here is thy food!’ he cried to the birds. ‘Are ye hungry, little ones?’

And he threw the grain in a golden shower.

‘Ambrogio is not here to see you feed today,’ he continued. ‘What makes him late, Graziosa?’

‘The way is long,’ she returned, ‘from the convent where he works, Father, and the monks grudge him any time away from the altar-piece.’

‘And the bracelet?’ said Agnolo. ‘He vowed thou shouldst have it back.’

‘I wish he had not,’ said the girl in distress. ‘He will do something rash, I fear me. How can he get it back from the Visconti palace?’

‘He won’t get it back,’ said the little painter cheerfully. ‘Even a lover would not be quite so mad as to beard the Visconti for a toy.’

‘Yet he swore I should have it again. It was rash of me to tell him how I lost it,’ replied Graziosa.

‘Then he would have thought thou hadst given it to the stone-cutter next door, and there would have been high words, flashing eyes. “Ha — ha — come out and be slain, thou varlet! Skulking dog, thou list!” then swords out, and thou lying in a faint — bewailing the day of thy birth. After that, thunder and lightning — gore — the brawlers driven into the street — the soldiers come up — and off we go to prison for disturbing the streets with our frays.’

‘You jest too much, Father,’ said Graziosa. ‘It may be serious if Ambrogio try to recover the bracelet.’

But a light knock on the outer door interrupted her, and with a heightened colour she rose.

‘It is he, Father!’ she whispered. ‘I knew he would not fail us.’ Agnolo hurried forward and drew back the bolts, and truly enough Ambrogio entered.

Graziosa’s lover was of medium height, a slight man, with beautiful grey eyes. His attire was the plain garb of a student. Today his right hand was hanging in a sling, while in, the other he carried a roll of drawings.

‘Still alive!’ said Agnolo pleasantly. ‘Graziosa was fearing thou hadst spitted thyself on Visconti’s sword in the recovery of her bracelet.’

Ambrogio took little heed of the painter, but closing the door softly behind him, turned with a tender glance to Graziosa.

‘Wert thou grieving for me?’ he said gently. ‘I am safe, my beautiful, and see, I have kept my word.’

As he spoke he drew out the emerald bracelet from his robe, and handed it with a smile to the girl who stood there, blushing with pleasure and astonishment.

‘Thou hast got it back,’ she cried; ‘from the Visconti’s palace

Ambrogio smoothed her bright hair tenderly.

‘The bracelet was thine,’ he said, ‘therefore I went there for it, and have brought it back to thee, even from the, Visconti’s palace.’

Agnolo was staring at him in amazement.

‘How didst thou do it!’ he exclaimed.

Ambrogio touched his bandaged arm with a smile.

‘With only a small injury,’ he said, ‘since ’tis not the hand I paint with.’

And now Graziosa broke in with passionate exclamations of pity for his wound, of admiration for his courage, covering the injured hand with caresses.

‘Thou hast recovered it — by force?’ asked Agnolo again, incredulous.

‘Call it by force or what thou wilt,’ returned Ambrogio. ‘There is no need to speak of it more. It is enough you are in no danger. No one will follow me here to regain it.’

Graziosa kissed her recovered treasure and clasped it on her arm again.

‘I shall never dare to wear it save within these walls,’ she said.

Ambrogio took her hand in his, and led her toward the house.

‘Do not fear, sweet,’ he returned, looking down at her with a smile. ‘Wear it where and how thou wilt. Tisio Visconti will not annoy thee more.’

The girl glanced up, startled by the authority of his manner. Ambrogio, noticing the questioning look, turned it aside with a pleasant laugh.

‘The Duke is tired of his whims, and is putting him under a closer watch,’ he said. ‘From now on he will not often ride the streets’

‘I am sorry for him,’ said Graziosa impulsively. ‘I am very sorry for him.’

They were at the house door, and Agnolo, stepping ahead into the dark entrance, led the way up a flight of shallow wooden stairs.

‘This is stirring news, Ambrogio,’ he call............