I drew down the window-blinds to shut out the brilliancy of the beautiful Southern sunlight, and throwing myself on my bed I determined to rest quietly till Amy came back.

I had brought the "Letters of a Dead Musician" away with me from Cellini's studio, and I began to read, intending to keep myself awake by this means.

But I found I could not fix my attention on the page, nor could I think at all connectedly.

Little by little my eyelids closed; the book dropped from my nerveless hand; and in a few minutes I was in a deep and tranquil slumber..