went out upon the terrace close to
their hotel to look at the moon rising over the distant hills.

That young lady had disappeared as soon as they arose from the table,
and Mrs. Douglas had sent Margery to her room to tell her they were
going out, but she had declined to accompany them.

"Mother thinks she is not feeling quite well," answered Margery, drawing
Malcom's face close to her own; "but I think she is vexed about
something."

The truth was that Miss Sherman was as nearly cross as she dared to be.
Were she with father and sister, instead of Mrs. Douglas's party, why!
then she could give vent to her feelings; and what a relief it would be!
But now she was trying her best to conquer them, or, rather, to hide
them; but the habit of a lifetime will not easily give way on occasion.

She had never been so happy in her life as since she left Florence with
Mrs. Douglas. Wherever she was, wherever she went, there was Mr. Sumner,
always full of most courteous consideration for her as his sister's
guest. She had been so happy that her sweetness and gentleness were
irresistible, and again and again had Mrs. Douglas congratulated herself
on having found such an enjoyable companion; and Mr. Sumner felt
grateful to her for enhancing his sister's happiness.

But to-day a change had taken place in the satisfactory tide of affairs.
Mr. Sumner had been willing--more than that--had _chosen_ to drive all
the way back from Assisi in the carriage with Malcom, Barbara, and
Bettina, and it was all she could do to hide her chagrin and
displeasure.

Mrs. Douglas, with her usual kind judgment, had decided that she was not
quite well, and throughout the drive had respected her evident desire
for silence, though she wondered a little at it.

So while she and Margery were talking about good St. Francis, whose
heart overflowed with love to every living creature--mankind, animals,
birds, and flowers, and whose whole life was given up to their
service--Miss Sherman hugged close her little jealous grievance and,
brooding over it, gave no thought to the associations of the place they
had just visited, or to the glorious Italian landscape through which
they were passing.

It was not that she really loved Mr. Sumner after all; that is, not as
some women love, for it was not in her nature to do so; but she did wish
to become his wife; and this had been her supreme thought during all the
months since she had met him. Lately the memory of his