“But even then we must allow that the paintings would not have been here if it were not for the saint; so it really amounts to about the same thing, doesn’t it?” answered his uncle, smiling.

“What a pity it is,” said Bettina, thinking of the garrulous old monk who so evidently desired to earn his lira, “that people will add so much that is imaginary when there is enough that is true.  It is a shame to so exaggerate stories of St. Francis’s life as to make them seem almost ridiculous.”

When their drive was nearly over and they were watching the ever nearing Perugia, Malcom turned toward Mr. Sumner with a serious look and said:—­

“Uncle Robert, these Italian cities are wonderfully interesting, and I think I have never enjoyed anything in my life so much as the fortnight since we left Florence and, of course, the time we were there; and yet I would not for worlds live here among them.”

Then, as Mr. Sumner looked inquiringly at him, he continued, with an excited flush:  “What is there in them that a man could get hold of to help, anyway?  It seems to me as if their lives have been all lived, as if they now are dead; and how can any new life be put into them?  Look at these villages we have been passing through!  What power can make the people wish for anything better than they have, can wake them up to make more of the children than the parents are?  In the present condition of people and government, how can any man, for instance, such as you are, really accomplish anything?  How would one go about it?  Now at home, you know, if one is only man enough, he can have so much influence to make things better; can give children better schools; can give people books; can help lift the low-down into a higher place.  He can help in making all sorts of reforms, can be a leader in such things.  He can go into politics and try to make them cleaner.”

Malcom had spoken out of his heart, and, in sympathy with him, Bettina squeezed Barbara’s hand under the cover.

Barbara, however, was looking at Mr. Sumner, and her quick eyes had noted the sensitive change of expression in his; the startled look of surprise that first leaped into them, and the steady pain that followed.  An involuntary glance at Barbara told him that she recognized his pain and longed to say something to help, but she could not; and it was Bettina who, after a moment’s silence, said gently:—­

“I am sure you are right, Malcom, but I think I could live all my life in this dear, beautiful Italy if all whom I love were with me.”

Malcom did not for a moment think that his words would so touch his uncle.  He had spoken from his own stand-point, with thought of himself alone, and would have been amazed indeed could he have known what a steady flame within his uncle’s mind his little spark had kindled.

* * * * *

“What is the matter with Miss Sherman?” whispered Malcom in Margery’s ear, as, soon after dinner, they went out upon the terrace close to their hotel to look at the moon rising over the distant hills.