sometimes bring her friend a letter of her father’s, or a fragment of journal from that full and tragic store which the solicitors had now placed in her hands; generally escaping afterward from all comment; only able to bear a look, a pressure of the hand.  But, as a rule, she kept her pain out of sight.  In the long dumb debate with herself she had grown thin and pale.  There was nothing, however, to be done, nothing to be said.  The devoted friend could only watch and wait.  Meanwhile, of Oliver Marsham not a word was ever spoken between them.

* * * * *

The travellers climbed the hill as the sun sank behind the mountains, made for the Subasio Hotel, found letters, and ordered rooms.

Among her letters, Diana opened one from Sir James Chide.  “The House will be up on Thursday for the recess, and at last I have persuaded Ferrier to let me carry him off.  He is looking worn out, and, as I tell him, will break down before the election unless he takes a holiday now.  So he comes—­protesting.  We shall probably join you somewhere in Umbria—­at Perugia or Assisi.  If I don’t find you at one or the other, I shall write to Siena, where you said you meant to be by the first week in June.  And, by-the-way, I shouldn’t wonder if Bobbie Forbes were with us.  He amuses Ferrier, who is very fond of him.  But, of course, you needn’t see anything of him unless you like.”

The letter was passed on to Muriel, who thought she perceived that the news it contained seemed to make Diana shrink into herself.  She was much attached to Sir James Chide, and had evidently felt pleasure in the expectation of his coming out to join them.  But Mr. Ferrier—­and Bobbie Forbes—­both of them associated with the Marshams and Tallyn?  Mrs. Colwood noticed the look of effort in the girl’s delicate face, and wished that Sir James had been inspired to come alone.

After unpacking, there still remained half an hour before dark.  They hurried out for a first look at the double church.

The evening was cold and the wind chill.  Spring comes tardily to the high mountain town, and a light powdering of snow still lay on the topmost slope of Monte Subasio.  Before going into the church they turned up the street that leads to the Duomo and the temple of Minerva.  Assisi seemed deserted—­a city of ghosts.  Not a soul in the street, not a light in the windows.  On either hand, houses built of a marvellous red stone or marble, which seemed still to hold and radiate the tempestuous light which had but just faded from them; the houses of a small provincial aristocracy, immemorially old like the families which still possessed them; close-paned, rough-hewn, and poor—­yet showing here and there a doorway, a balcony, a shrine, touched with divine beauty.

“Where are all the people gone to?” cried Muriel, looking at the secret rose-colored walls, now withdrawing into the dusk, and at the empty street.  “Not a soul anywhere!”