“I wonder what is the matter with Lucile” (for so Miss Sherman had begged to be called), Mrs. Douglas queried with herself that night, and sought among the events of the day for some possible explanation.  “She seems as if hurt by something.”  Suddenly the thought flashed into her mind:  “Can it be because Robert left us to drive with the others?  Can it be that she has learned to care for him so much as that?” And her woman’s nature overflowed with sympathy at the suggestion of such an interpretation.

She had not forgotten the desire that crept into her heart that morning of the day they spent at Fiesole; and now came the glad belief that if Miss Sherman had really learned to love her brother, it must be that in time he would feel it, and yield to the sweetness of her affection.  She did not wonder that Lucile should love her darling brother.  Indeed, how could any woman help it?  And she was so sensitive that she might acutely feel even such a little thing as his not returning in the carriage with them.  And her quietness might have been caused by the disappointment.  She would be herself the next morning; and Mrs. Douglas resolved to be only kinder and more loving than ever to her.

And, indeed, the next morning the clouds were all dissipated, and Miss Sherman accepted, with her usual sweet smile, her portion of the flowers that Mr. Sumner brought to the ladies of his party.

But the night just passed would never be forgotten by Robert Sumner, and had marked a vital change in his life.  He had walked the floor of his moonlighted room until the early morning hours, his thoughts given wholly to the great subject Malcom’s unconscious words had opened within his mind.  Could it be that unconsciously, through weakness, he had yielded himself to a selfish course of living?  He, whose one aim and ideal had ever been to give his life and its opportunities for the benefit of others?  Had his view been a narrow one, when he had so longed that it should be wide and ever wider?

It really began to seem so in the pitiless glare of the light now thrown upon it.  He had surely been living for his fellow-men.  He had been striving to make his own culture helpful to those who were less happy in opportunity.  But had his outlook been far and wide enough?  Had not the personal sorrow to which he had yielded narrowed to his eyes the world,—­his world, in which God had put him?  Living on here in his loved Italy, the knowledge he had gained was being sent out to aid those who already had enough to enable them to follow into the higher paths he opened.  His pictures, every one of which had grown out of his own heart, were bearing messages to those whose eyes were opened to read.  But what of the great mass of humanity, God’s humanity too, which was waiting for some one to awaken the very first desires for culture?  For some one to open, never so little, the blind eyes?  As Malcom had said, no one, no foreigner certainly, could ever reach this class of people in Italy.  The Church and the heavy hand of past centuries of ignorance forbade this.