But what of the great young land across the waters where he had been born—­his own land—­the refuge of the poor of all countries of the earth, even of his dear Italy?  Surely no power of influence there could be forbidden.  The good that wealth, culture, and art, guided by a heart consecrated to humanity, could work was limitless there.

He now saw that his personal sorrow, his own selfish grief, had come between all this and himself for six long years.  In deep humiliation he bowed himself; and looking out over the great plain at his feet, in which lay Assisi and the paths the worn feet of St. Francis and his brethren had so often trod six centuries ago, now all gilded with the light of the same moon that was shining over the distant land of his birth, Robert Sumner pledged his life anew to God and his fellow-man, and determined that his old grief should be only a stepping-stone to a larger service; that, keeping Italy and her treasures in his life only as a recreation and a source of inspiration, he would hereafter live in his own America.

In the peace of mind that came after the struggle, which was no slight one, he slept and dreamed,—­dreamed of the fair girl he had so loved with all the force of his young, strong nature, and whom he had so long mourned.  She smiled upon him, and into her smile came the lovelight he had seen in Barbara’s eyes that birthday evening, and then she changed into Barbara, and he awoke with the thought of the wistful look she had given him the afternoon before when Malcom’s words wounded.

In the morning, as he gave the flowers he had chosen expressly for her, and their hands for a moment met, the remembrance of this dream flashed into his mind, and Barbara, surprised, felt a momentary lingering of his touch.

After breakfast Mrs. Douglas declared her intention to spend the morning in writing letters, and advised the others to follow her example.

“You know we go to Rome to-morrow, and I prophesy no one of us will feel like sparing much time for writing during our first days there,” she said.

Barbara and Bettina spent an hour on their home-letter, then stole away alone, and finding a secluded spot on the grand terrace in front of their hotel, sat down, with the great valley before them.  The blue sky, so clear and blue, was full of great white puffs of cloud whose shadows were most fascinating to watch as they danced over the plain,—­now hiding a distant city,—­now permitting just a gleam of sunshine to gild its topmost towers; and anon flitting, leaving that city-crowned summit all in light, while another was enveloped in darkness.

They talked long together, as only two girls who love each other can talk—­of the sky and the land; of the impressions daily received; of the thoughts born of their present daily experiences; of the home friends from whom they were so widely separated.  Then they grew silent, giving themselves to the dreamy beauty of the scene.