Mrs. Douglas had chosen happily when she decided to land at Genoa instead of at one of the northern ports; for aside from the fact that the whole Atlantic passage was calmer than it otherwise could have been, the beauty and interest of the days on the Mediterranean are almost without parallel in ocean travel.

The magnificent snow-capped mountains of the Spanish shore; the rugged northern coasts of the Balearic Islands; the knowledge that out just beyond sight lies Corsica, where was born the little island boy, so proud, ambitious, and unscrupulous as emperor, so sad and disappointed in his banishment and death; and then the long beautiful Riviera coast, which the steamships for Genoa really skirt, permitting their passengers to look into Nice, Bordighera, Monaco, San Remo, etc., and to realize all the picturesque beauty of their mountain background—­all this gave three enchanting days to our little party before the ship sailed into the harbor of Genoa, La Superba, a well-merited title.

The city seemed now like a jewel in green setting, as its softly colored palaces, rising terrace above terrace, surrounded by rich tropical foliage, glowed in the rays of the setting sun.

Here Mrs. Douglas was to meet her brother; and she, Malcom, and Margery were full of eager excitement.  It was hard to wait until the little crowd of people collected on the wharf should separate into distinct individuals.

“There he is! there is Uncle Robert!  I see him!” cried Malcom.  “He is waving his handkerchief from the top of his cane!”

While Mrs. Douglas and Margery pressed forward to send some token of recognition across the rapidly diminishing breadth of waters, Barbara and Bettina sought with vivid interest the figure and face of one whom they remembered but slightly, but of whom they had heard much.  Robert Sumner was a name often mentioned in their home for, as a boy, and young man, he had been particularly dear to Dr. Burnett and had been held up as a model of all excellence before his own boys.

Some six years before the time of our story he was to marry a beautiful girl, who died almost on the eve of what was to have been their marriage-day.  Stunned by the affliction, the young artist bade good-by to home and friends and went to Italy, feeling that he could bear his loss only under new conditions; and, ever since, that country had been his home.  He had travelled widely, yet had always returned to Italy.  “Next year I will go back to America,” he had often thought; but there was still a shrinking from the coming into contact with painful associations.  Only his sister and her children were left of the home circle and it were happier if they would come to him; so he had stayed on, a voluntary exile.

Not yet thirty years of age, he looked even younger as with shining eyes he watched the little group on the deck of the big approaching steamship.  Of the strength of his affections no one could be doubtful who witnessed his warm, passionate embraces when, after long delay, the ship and shore were at last bound together.