Gradually, along the steep road from Camerata there came a roll of distant carriage-wheels.  The sound came nearer and nearer, till one could see the carriage, and see the driver leading the tired, thin, cab-horse, his bones starting under the shaggy hide.  Inside the carriage reclined a handsome middle-aged lady, with a stern profile turned towards the road; a young girl in pale pink cotton and a broad hat trudged up the hill at the side.

“Goneril,” said Miss Hamelyn, “let me beg you again to come inside the carriage.”

“Oh, no, Aunt Margaret; I’m not a bit tired.”

“But I have asked you; that is reason enough.”

“It’s so hot!” cried Goneril.

“That is why I object to your walking.”

“But if it’s so hot for me, just think how hot it must be for the horse.”

Goneril cast a commiserating glance at the poor halting, wheezing nag.

“The horse, probably,” rejoined Miss Hamelyn, “does not suffer from malaria, neither has he kept his aunt in Florence nursing him till the middle heat of the summer.”

“True!” said Goneril.  Then, after a few minutes, “I’ll get in, Aunt Margaret, on one condition.”

“In my time young people did not make conditions.”

“Very well, auntie; I’ll get in, and you shall answer all my questions when you feel inclined.”

The carriage stopped.  The poor horse panted at his ease, while the girl seated herself beside Miss Hamelyn.  Then for a few minutes they drove on in silence past the orchards, past the olive-yards, yellow underneath with ripening corn; past the sudden wide views of the mountains, faintly crimson in the midst of heat, and, on the other side, of Florence, the towers and domes steaming beside the hazy river.

“How hot it looks down there!” cried Goneril.

“How hot it feels!” echoed Miss Hamelyn rather grimly.

“Yes, I am so glad you can get away at last, dear, poor old auntie.”  Then, a little later.  “Won’t you tell me something about the old ladies with whom you are going to leave me?”

Miss Hamelyn was mollified by Goneril’s obedience.

“They are very nice old ladies, I met them at Mrs. Gorthrup’s.”  But this was not at all what the young girl wanted.

“Only think, Aunt Margaret,” she cried impatiently, “I am to stay there for at least six weeks, and I know nothing about them, not what age they are, nor if they are tall or short, jolly or prim, pretty or ugly; not even if they speak English!”

“They speak English,” said Miss Hamelyn, beginning at the end.  “One of them is English, or at least Irish:  Miss Prunty.”

“And the other?”

“She is an Italian, Signora Petrucci; she used to be very handsome.”

“Oh,” said Goneril, looking pleased.  “I’m glad she’s handsome, and that they speak English.  But they are not relations?”

“No, they are not connected; they are friends.”