Her thoughts went back to many of their first conversations after coming to Florence; to Barbara’s intense absorption in Mr. Sumner’s talks about the old painters; to her unwearied study of them; to her evident sympathy with him on all occasions.

Then, in a flash she remembered her faintness in the carriage on the drive to Sorrento and connected it, as she had never before dreamed of doing, with the conversation then going on; and recalled all those days since when she had been so different from the old-time Barbara.

And poor Bettina sat, a disconsolate little figure, before her half-filled trunk, just ready to cry with sheer vexation at her blindness.  Then, the thought came that if Mr. Sumner did really love Barbara all would be well.  But, alas! the doubt followed whether, after all, the pictures meant anything more than the artist’s love for a beautiful face, and his desire to render it on his canvas.  She grew more and more miserable in her sympathy for her sister, and at her enforced separation from her, and the hours of that day, though of necessity busy ones, seemed almost interminable.

The following noon found them together again.

Bettina entered her sister’s room, which opened full upon the rose-garden they had enjoyed before,—­now filled with blossoms and fragrance,—­to find Barbara sitting in a big easy-chair, with a tray before her, on which were spread toast and tea, flanked by a dainty flask of Orvieto wine, while the same wrinkled old chambermaid who had served them two and a half months ago stood, with beaming face, watching her efforts to eat.

Barbara’s eyes were brighter, the flush gone from her face, and she said she did not feel like the same girl who had been half carried away from the hotel in Rome the morning before.  So much improved did she seem that the present plan was to take a late afternoon train for Florence, for Mr. Sumner said the sooner they could get farther north, the better it would be.  This was carried out, and night found them back in the dear Florence home, there to spend a few days.

The city was very lovely in its May foliage and blossoms,—­too lovely to leave so soon, they all averred.  But it must be, and after having taken again their favorite drives, and having given another look at their favorite pictures, with an especial interest in those by the Venetian masters whom they would study more fully in Venice, they turned their faces northward.

The journey at first took them through rich Tuscan plains, and later through wild, picturesque ravines of the Apennines.  Higher and higher the railway climbed, threading numberless tunnels, and affording magnificent views as it emerged into opening after opening, until finally it passed under the height that divides the watershed of the Adriatic and Tyrrhenian seas, and entered the narrow and romantic valley of the Reno.  Not long after they were in the ancient city of Bologna.  After a few minutes in their several rooms, all gathered in the loggia of their hotel, which commanded a grand survey of the city.