As she passed forever from the little
villa, she never turned for one last look at its vine-clad walls.

The gaunt, silent Italian servant who had lived with Dora since the
first day she reached Florence came to her in wonder and alarm, barely
recognizing her pretty, gentle mistress in the pale, determined woman
who looked like one brought to bay. To her Dora spoke of the letter;
it was to be given to her husband as soon as he returned. Not one word
did she utter in reply to the woman's question. She hurried with the
keen desperation of despair, lest Ronald should return and find her
still there.

Soon after noon, and while Ronald lingered with some friends upon the
steps of the Hotel d'Italia, his wife reached the busy railway station
at Florence. She had money enough to take her home, but none to spare.
She knew no rest; every moment seemed like an age to her, until the
train was in motion, and fair, sunny Florence left far behind.

Without the stimulus of anger Dora would have shrunk in terror from the
thought of a long journey alone--she who had never been without the
escort of a kind and attentive husband. But no prospect daunted her
now--the wide seas, the dangers of rail and road had no terror for her.
She was flying in hot haste and anger from one who had said before her
rival that he never wished to see her face again.

* * * * *

The sun shining so brightly on the waters of the Arno lingered almost
lovingly on the fair, quiet English landscape. Far down in the fertile
and beautiful county of Kent, where the broad channel washes the shore,
stands the pretty, almost unknown village of Knutsford.

The world is full of beauty, every country has its share Switzerland
its snow-clad mountains, Germany its dark woods and broad streams,
France its sunny plains, Italy its "thousand charms of Nature and Art;"
but for quiet, tranquil loveliness, for calm, fair beauty, looking
always fresh from the mighty hand that created it, there is nothing
like English scenery.

The white cliffs of Knutsford, like "grand giants," ran along the
shore; there was a broad stretch of yellow sand, hidden when the tide
was in, shining and firm when it ebbed. The top of the cliff was like
a carpet of thick green grass and springing heather. Far away, in the
blue distance, one could see, of a bright, sunny day, the outline of
the French coast. The waves rolled in, and broke upon the yellow
sands; the