"Are you James Etheridge?"
The artist started. It was not the words, but the tone—the voice that startled him, and for a brief second he was still dumb, then he rose, and looking at her with faint, trembling questioning, he answered:
"Yes, that is my name. I am James Etheridge."
Her lips quivered again, but still, quietly and simply, she said:
"You do not know me? I am Stella—your niece, Stella."
The old man threw up his head and stared at her, and she saw that he trembled.
"Stella—my niece—Harold's child!"
"Yes," she said, in a low voice, "I am Stella."
"But, merciful Heaven!" he exclaimed, with agitation, "how did you come here? Why—I thought you were at the school there in Florence—why—have you come here alone?"