“O, thank you! thank you!” exclaimed Flora, jumping up and kissing her.

“I trust you will not go out, or sing, or show yourself at the windows while I am gone,” said Mrs. Delano; “for though Mr. Fitzgerald can do you no possible harm, it would be more agreeable to slip away without his seeing you.”

The promise was readily and earnestly given, and she proceeded to the lodgings of Mr. and Mrs. Percival in the next street.  After she had related the experiences of the morning, she asked what they supposed had become of Rosabella.

“It is to be hoped she does not continue her relation with that base man if she knows of his marriage,” said Mrs. Percival; “for that would involve a moral degradation painful for you to think of in Flora’s sister.”

“If she has ceased to interest his fancy, very likely he may have sold her,” said Mr. Percival; “for a man who could entertain the idea of selling Flora, I think would sell his own Northern wife, if the law permitted it and circumstances tempted him to it.”

“What do you think I ought to do in the premises?” inquired Mrs. Delano.

“I would hardly presume to say what you ought to do,” rejoined Mrs. Percival; “but I know what I should do, if I were as rich as you, and as strongly attached to Flora.”

“Let me hear what you would do,” said Mrs. Delano.

The prompt reply was:  “I would go in search of her.  And if she was sold, I would buy her and bring her home, and be a mother to her.”

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Delano, warmly pressing her hand.  “I thought you would advise what was kindest and noblest.  Money really seems to me of very little value, except as a means of promoting human happiness.  And in this case I might perhaps prevent moral degradation, growing out of misfortune and despair.”

After some conversation concerning vessels that were about to sail, the friends parted.  On her way homeward, she wondered within herself whether they had any suspicion of the secret tie that bound her so closely to these unfortunate girls.  “I ought to do the same for them without that motive,” thought she; “but should I?”

Though her call had not been very long, it seemed so to Flora, who had latterly been little accustomed to solitude.  She had no heart for books or drawing.  She sat listlessly watching the crowd on Monte Pincio;—­children chasing each other, or toddling about with nurses in bright-red jackets; carriages going round and round, ever and anon bringing into the sunshine gleams of gay Roman scarfs, or bright autumnal ribbons fluttering in the breeze.  She had enjoyed few things more than joining that fashionable promenade to overlook the city in the changing glories of sunset.  But now she cared not for it.  Her thoughts were far away on the lonely island.  As sunset quickly faded into twilight, carriages and pedestrians wound their way down the hill.  The noble trees on its summit became solemn silhouettes against the darkening sky,