It had been our intention to end this series after Gibran's return to Boston in America, and Rozina's return to her family in Anticoli, in Italy. But in deference to our readers' insistence and their demands upon us for more of this new genre, we went back to our friend the artist, who had never before opened his heart to any living soul! — We went back to him to ask for more of these delightful memories, and he did not disappoint us — generous and obliging as he is — and we won from him a rich harvest which we shall pass on to our readers handful by handful, in a new series that we begin today...

We are still where we were... Our events take place in Paris in the year 1912... They are recounted to us now, from his residence in Awra, by the doyen of our artists, Mr. Youssef Howayek, holding fast to fact and truth — as far as memory has allowed him... And we have made recording our task, with fidelity for our guide — as far as the pen has allowed us...

I was new to Paris, having come to it from Rome. I was still taken up with settling my affairs and arranging the ways of my

livelihood, sitting now and again with Gibran, who had preceded me to this city, asking him about this matter and that, in the hope of profiting from his experience and his advice. One day, while we were taking our lunch in a small restaurant near the Luxembourg garden, I noticed that Gibran was absent-minded, his attention straying from me. When I asked him where he was, he said: What have we to do with the cares of life just now, Youssef? Turn to your left, to that beauty sitting alone, eating at her leisure and reading in a book before her... I have been watching her, and I noticed that every little while she steals a glance at you... Did you not feel the arrows of her hazel eyes?

I turned to where Gibran pointed and saw the hazel eyes fixed upon me, only to dart quickly back to the plate... and the book... I contemplated her at length. Her head was bare, showing hair inclining to blondness... and a face of the utmost purity of whiteness... as were her hands... And over her shoulders lay a gray shawl with brocaded borders...

After some thought I said to Gibran: — This girl is no Parisian, as far as I can see... From what country might she be, I wonder? The girl raised her head toward us a second time, understood that we were occupied with her, and at once turned her gaze from us back to the book.

Gibran said: She is no ordinary girl. She bears the stamp of nobility... Perhaps a Scandinavian student?!

At this, we went back to attending to our arrangements. And it appeared that Gibran was not content with having entered the Académie Julian... where the atmosphere is a mob's, ill-suited to his temperament... and where the counsels of the master

Laurens were of no use to him — indeed the last thing that could be of use to him... besides which his name was unknown in America... He said at last: — I am thinking seriously, Youssef, of working in my own studio, free and independent. What would you say to our sharing