That young lady had disappeared as soon as they arose from the table, and Mrs. Douglas had sent Margery to her room to tell her they were going out, but she had declined to accompany them.

“Mother thinks she is not feeling quite well,” answered Margery, drawing Malcom’s face close to her own; “but I think she is vexed about something.”

The truth was that Miss Sherman was as nearly cross as she dared to be.  Were she with father and sister, instead of Mrs. Douglas’s party, why! then she could give vent to her feelings; and what a relief it would be!  But now she was trying her best to conquer them, or, rather, to hide them; but the habit of a lifetime will not easily give way on occasion.

She had never been so happy in her life as since she left Florence with Mrs. Douglas.  Wherever she was, wherever she went, there was Mr. Sumner, always full of most courteous consideration for her as his sister’s guest.  She had been so happy that her sweetness and gentleness were irresistible, and again and again had Mrs. Douglas congratulated herself on having found such an enjoyable companion; and Mr. Sumner felt grateful to her for enhancing his sister’s happiness.

But to-day a change had taken place in the satisfactory tide of affairs.  Mr. Sumner had been willing—­more than that—­had chosen to drive all the way back from Assisi in the carriage with Malcom, Barbara, and Bettina, and it was all she could do to hide her chagrin and displeasure.

Mrs. Douglas, with her usual kind judgment, had decided that she was not quite well, and throughout the drive had respected her evident desire for silence, though she wondered a little at it.

So while she and Margery were talking about good St. Francis, whose heart overflowed with love to every living creature—­mankind, animals, birds, and flowers, and whose whole life was given up to their service—­Miss Sherman hugged close her little jealous grievance and, brooding over it, gave no thought to the associations of the place they had just visited, or to the glorious Italian landscape through which they were passing.

It was not that she really loved Mr. Sumner after all; that is, not as some women love, for it was not in her nature to do so; but she did wish to become his wife; and this had been her supreme thought during all the months since she had met him.  Lately the memory of his agitation when Barbara had passed him that evening of the party had disagreeably haunted her.  It had so moved her that, truth to tell, she mourned over Howard’s death more because it served to withdraw an obstacle between these two than for any other reason.  That mere girl, she thought, might prove a formidable rival.  All the more had it seemed so, since she daily saw what a lovely, noble young woman Barbara really was, and how worthy a companion, even for Mr. Sumner.

So every moment he had devoted to herself or had seemed to choose to be in her own society, was an especial cause for self-congratulation.  But now she furtively clinched her little gloved hand, and the lids lowered over her beautiful eyes as they grew hard, and she did not wish to talk.