“I—­don’t—­know—­what—­I—­do—­think,—­Malcom.  You know how much I love and admire your uncle.  I do not think there are many women good enough to be his wife.”

Bettina thought, but did not say, that she could not love and admire Miss Sherman, who had made it quite evident to Barbara and herself that she cared nothing for them, save as they were under the care of Mrs. Douglas; who had never given them any companionship, or, at least, never had until during the past week or two, after she had learned that Barbara was Howard’s heiress.

Barbara drew her breath quickly and sharply.  Could such a thing as this be? was this to come?  In her mind, Mr. Sumner was consecrated to the dead Margaret, about whom she had thought so much,—­the picture of whose lovely face she had so often studied,—­whose character she had adorned with all possible graces!  She listened, as in a dream, to Bettina and Malcom.  He should not love any one else; or, if he could—­poor Barbara’s heart was ruthlessly torn open and revealed unto her consciousness.  She felt that the others must read the tale in her confused face.

Confused?  No, Barbara, it was pale and still, as if a mortal wound had been given.

Her head reeled, the world grew dark, and it was silence until she heard Bettina saying frantically:—­

“Bab, dear! are you faint?  Oh! what is it?”

With an almost superhuman effort Barbara drew herself up and smiled bravely, with white lips:—­

“It is nothing—­only a moment’s dizziness.  It is all over now.”

This was what Mr. Sumner saw when he sprang up in alarm, and then in a moment said:  “Everything seems all right now.”

But poor Barbara thought nothing could ever be right again.  And when their carriage drew up in the spacious courtyard of their hotel at Sorrento, and Mr. Sumner, with an unusually bright and eager face, stood waiting to help her alight, it was a frozen little hand that was put into his, and he could not win a single glance from the eyes he loved to watch, and from which he was impatient to learn if it were indeed well with the owner.

To this day Barbara shudders at the thought or mention of the next four or five days.  And they were such rare days for enjoyment, could she have forgotten her own heart:—­across the blue waters to Capri, with a visit by the way to the famous Blue Grotto; a whole day in that lovely town, walking about its winding, climbing streets; the long drive from Sorrento to quaint Prajano, with, on one hand, towering, rugged limestone cliffs, to whose rough sides, every here and there, clings an Italian village, and, on the other, the smiling, wide-spreading Mediterranean; the little rowboat ride to Amalfi; the day full of interest spent there; and then the drive close beside the sea toward Palermo, terminated by a sharp turn toward the blue mountains among which nestles La Cava; the railway ride back to Naples.