tinued Della Rocca, with hesitation, "might I one day hope that you would honour my poor villa? It has little else left in it; but there are still a few rare pieces of Gubbio and Urbino and Faenza, and I have a Calvary which, if not by Lucca himself, is certainly by Andrea della Robbia.'
"I shall be glad to see them. Your villa is near?"
"About ten miles' distance, up in the hills. It was once a great stronghold as well as palace. Now it can boast no interest save such as may go with fallen fortunes. For more than a century we have been too poor to be able to do any more than keep wind and water out of it; and it had been cleared before my time of almost everything of value. Happily, however, the chestnut woods outside it have not been touched. They shroud its nakedness."
"Your villa, Della Rocca?" cried Madame de Caviare, who had known him for several years. "I have never seen it; we will drive out there some day when the cold winds are gone———"
"Vous me comblez de bontés," he answered,
