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conscious as Desdemona of the betrayal of her affection, like Desdemona, was "half the wooer." Andrea's discretion was put to flight; in an unguarded moment he poured forth his hopeless passion, asking and expecting nothing but the privilege of saying that he loved and despaired, the joy of daring to believe that his love was not spurned. To aspire to the hand of a Florentine lady of high lineage, seemed too wild a vision even for an enthusiast. But the gentle Constanza thought otherwise.

"You will be famous one of these days," she timidly said; "you will win renown equal to that of Michael Angelo, and then my father will not refuse you his child. Genius has a nobility of its own, far higher and worthier than that of accidental descent. We have only to wait—wait for years, perhaps many years! Wait until clustering laurels have crowned your brow, and then you may place the bridal chaplet upon mine."

So she prattled on in her hopeful, innocent way, and Andrea, against his better judgment, could not forego the happiness of believing her words.

When the prize for Mary was offered by the Grand Duke, Andrea immediately became one of the competitors. Was it wonderful that he unconsciously communicated to his design the face. and form ever present to his mind? Old Bettina first discovered the resemblance. Then Constanza impulsively proposed to sit as the model for her