“Feverish?” repeated Mrs. Douglas, with a startled look, as she hastily prepared to accompany Betty back to her room.  In a few minutes she sought her brother, her face full of anxiety.

“Robert, I fear Barbara has the fever.  Her temperature must be high; her face is greatly flushed, and her eyes dull, and she says her whole body is full of pain.”

“We must take her away at once out of the atmosphere of Rome,” exclaimed Mr. Sumner, with decision.

“But she feels so wretchedly ill.”

“Never mind that.  If she can only endure the fatigue for a few hours, we may save her weeks of suffering and possible danger,” and his voice faltered.

“Remember, sister,” he continued, “that I am at home here in this climate, and trust me.  Or, better still, I will at once consult Dr. Yonge, and I know you will trust him.  And, sister, get everything ready so that we—­Barbara, you, and I—­may take the very first train for Orvieto.  That will take her in two hours into a high and pure atmosphere.  The others can follow as soon as possible.”

Quickly the plans were made.  Malcom, Margery, and Bettina were to be left to complete the packing of trunks.  Dr. Yonge agreed fully with Mr. Sumner, and on the nine o’clock train northward Mrs. Douglas, Barbara, and Mr. Sumner left Rome.

Miss Sherman, quite upset by the rapid movement of affairs, decided to remain a little longer in Rome with friends whom she had met there, and join the others later in Venice.

It was a severe trial to poor Bettina to see her darling sister thus almost literally borne away from her.  But she tried to put faith in Mr. Sumner’s assurances, and bravely resisted the anxious longing to go with her.  She immediately gave herself up to the work of finishing the packing of their own trunks and of helping Margery all she could.

Mr. Sumner had commissioned Malcom to go up to his studio and gather into boxes all his canvases and painting materials; and soon all three were working as fast as they could, with the design of following the others the next morning.

Presently Malcom appeared at Bettina’s door with the request that she should go up to the studio when she could leave her work for a minute.

“Come alone—­by yourself,” he added in a low voice.

Wondering a little at the singular request and the peculiar expression of Malcom’s face, Bettina soon followed him.

Entering the studio, she found him attentively regarding a small canvas which he had placed on an easel, and took her place beside him that she might look at it also.

“How lovely!” she cried, and then a puzzled look came into her eyes.

“Why, it is Barbara!  It is like Barbara,” she added.

“And what do you think of this—­and this—­and this?” asked Malcom, rapidly turning from the wall study after study.

After a few moments of silence, she said solemnly:  “They’re all Barbara.  Here she is thinking earnestly; here she is throwing her head proudly back, as she so often does; and here she is merry and smiling in her own adorable way.  O you darling Barbara!” with a pathetic little catch of the breath; “how are you feeling just this minute?” and Bettina sank upon the floor beside the pictures, looking as if she longed to hug them all.