It was early morning, and over the wide Campagna there still hung mists, which were dissipated gradually as the sun arose.  As they went on the day advanced, and with the departing mists there opened up a wide view.  On either side extended the desolate Campagna, over which passed lines of ruined aqueducts on their way from the hills to the city.  Here and there crumbling ruins arose above the plain—­some ancient, others medieval, none modern.  Before them, in the distance, arose the Apennines, among which were, here and there, visible the white outlines of some villa or hamlet.

For mile after mile they drove on; and the drive soon proved very monotonous.  It was nothing but one long and unvarying plain, with this only change, that every mile brought them nearer to the mountains.  As the mountains were their only hope, they all looked forward eagerly to the time when they would arrive there and wind along the road among them.

Formerly Mrs. Willoughby alone had been the confidante of Minnie’s secret, but the events of the past few days had disclosed most of her troubles to the other ladies also, at least as far as the general outlines were concerned.  The consequence was, that they all knew perfectly well the reason why they were traveling in this way, and Minnie knew that they all knew it.  Yet this unpleasant consciousness did not in the least interfere with the sweetness of her temper and the gentleness of her manner.  She sat there, with a meek smile and a resigned air, as though the only part now left her in life was the patient endurance of her unmerited wrongs.  She blamed no one; she made no complaint; yet there was in her attitude something so touching, so clinging, so pathetic, so forlorn, and in her face something so sweet, so sad, so reproachful, and so piteous, that she enforced sympathy; and each one began to have a half-guilty fear that Minnie had been wronged by her.  Especially did Mrs. Willoughby feel this.  She feared that she had neglected the artless and simple-minded child; she feared that she had not been sufficiently thoughtful about her; and now longed to do something to make amends for this imaginary neglect.  So she sought to make the journey as pleasant as possible by cheerful remarks and lively observations.  None of these things, however, produced any effect upon the attitude of Minnie.  She sat there, with unalterable sweetness and unvarying patience, just like a holy martyr, who freely forgave all her enemies, and was praying for those who had despitefully used her.

[Illustration:  THE PROCESSION ACROSS THE CAMPAGNA.]

The exciting events consequent upon the Baron’s appearance, and his sudden revelation in the role of Minnie’s lover, had exercised a strong and varied effect upon all; but upon one its result was wholly beneficial, and this was Ethel.  It was so startling and so unexpected that it had roused her from her gloom, and given her something to think of.  The Baron’s debut in their parlor had