she was a little girl of twelve or thirteen years and papa was just beginning to practise.  You know her father was very wealthy, and had helped him to get his profession because the two families were always so intimate.  Well, Mrs. Douglas was so ill that three or four doctors said they could do nothing more for her, and she must die.  Of course her father and mother were broken-hearted.  And papa went to them, and for days and nights did not sleep and hardly ate, but was with her every moment; and the older doctors acknowledged that but for him she could never have lived.—­And, just think! he never said a word about it to us!”

“Our father never talks of the good and noble things he does,” said Bettina, proudly.  “No wonder she loves him; but I do really think she loves us too.  Only the other day Malcom said he should be jealous were it anybody but you and me.  So I think all we can do is to keep on doing just as we have done, and love her more dearly than ever.”

“I wonder if there are any other girls in the world so happy as we are,” she added after a moment’s silence—­and the two pairs of brown eyes looked into each other volumes of tender sympathy and gladness.

What a day was that birthday!  Barbara and Bettina will surely tell of it to their children and grandchildren!  First of all came letters from the dear home—­birthday letters which Mrs. Douglas had withheld for a day or two so that they should be read at the fitting time.  Then the lovely gifts!  From Margery, an exquisite bit of sculptured marble for each, chosen after much consultation with her uncle and many visits to Via dei Fossi; from Malcom, copies of two of Fra Angelico’s musical Angels, each in a rich frame of Florentine hand-carving (for everything must be purely Florentine, all had agreed); from Mr. Sumner, portfolios of the finest possible photographs of the best works of Florentine masters from the very beginning down through the High Renaissance.

Mrs. Douglas gave them most lovely outfits for the party—­gowns of white chiffon daintily embroidered—­slippers, gloves—­everything needful; while Howard had asked that he might provide all the flowers.

When finally Barbara and Bettina stood on either side of Mrs. Douglas in the floral bower where they received their guests, it was indeed as if they were in fairy-land.  It did not seem possible that any more pink or white roses could be left in Florence, if indeed all Italy had not been laid under tribute,—­so lavish had Howard been.  Barbara carried white roses, and Bettina pink ones, and everywhere through the entire house were the exquisite things, peeping out from amidst the daintiest greens possible, or superb in the simplicity of their own magnificence.

The lovely American girls were the cynosure of all eyes, and the flattering things said to them by foreigners and Americans were almost enough to turn their heads.  Mrs. Douglas was delighted with the simple frankness and dignity with which they met all.