“Just wait, though, until we come down at sunset,” said Mr. Sumner.  “This is indeed beautiful, but then it will be most beautiful, and you can enjoy the changing colors of sunset over Florence, as seen from Fiesole, far better as we loiter along on the road, as we shall do to-night, than when in a carriage, as we were two or three weeks ago.  Of course, there is less color now than in summer, yet it will be glorious, I am sure.  We are most fortunate in our choice of a day, for it is warm, with a moisture in the atmosphere that veils forms and enriches color.  We should call it ‘Indian summer’ were we at home.”

Before they had quite reached the old city at the top, the carriage containing Mrs. Douglas, Miss Sherman, and Howard overtook them, and the latter sprang out to join the walking-party.

Such a day as followed!  Lunch in the grove behind the ancient Monastery!—­visits to the ruined Amphitheatre, the Cathedral, and Museum so full of all sorts of antiquities obtained from the excavations of ancient Fiesole!—­loitering in the spacious Piazza, where they were beset by children and weather-beaten, brown old women, clamoring for them to buy all sorts of things made of the straw there manufactured; and everywhere magnificent views, either of the widely extended valley of the Mugnone on the one side, or of Florence, lying in her amethystine cup, on the other!

Finally, giving orders for the carriage to follow within a certain time, so that any tired one might take it, all started down the hill.  They soon met a procession of young Franciscan monks, chanting a hymn as they walked—­their curious eyes stealing furtive glances at the beautiful faces of the American ladies.

“I feel as if I were a part of the fourteenth century,” said Miss Sherman.  “Surely Fra Angelico might be one of those passing us.”

“Only he would have worn a white gown instead of a brown one,” replied Mrs. Douglas, smiling.  “You know he was a Dominican monk, not Franciscan.”

“But look on the other side of the road,” cried Malcom, “and hear the buzzing of the wires! an electric tramway!  Here meet the fourteenth and the nineteenth centuries!”

In a minute it all had happened.  Just how, no one knew.  An agonized scream from the little maid, Anita, who was walking behind them, a momentary sight of the tiny, brown-faced Italian boy, her brother, right in the pathway of the swinging car as it rounded the curve—­Malcom’s spring—­and then the boy and himself lying out on the roadside against the wall.

The vigorous crying of the little boy as he rushed into his sister’s arms, evinced his safety, but there was a quiet about Malcom that was terrifying.

He had succeeded in throwing the child beyond the reach of the car, but had himself been struck by it, and consciousness was gone.

The little group, so happy a moment before, now hung over him in silent fear and agony.  Howard hastened back to get the carriage, and returned to find Malcom slowly struggling to awaken, but when moved, he again fainted; and so, lying in his uncle’s arms, with his pale mother and tearful Margery sitting in front, and the others, frightened and sympathetic, hurrying behind, Malcom was brought home through the wonderful sunset glow upon which not one bestowed a single thought.