ent, which until then had seemed only a
dream--a far-away dream? What a sure reality it would ever be after
this!

Mrs. Douglas had chosen happily when she decided to land at Genoa
instead of at one of the northern ports; for aside from the fact that
the whole Atlantic passage was calmer than it otherwise could have been,
the beauty and interest of the days on the Mediterranean are almost
without parallel in ocean travel.

The magnificent snow-capped mountains of the Spanish shore; the rugged
northern coasts of the Balearic Islands; the knowledge that out just
beyond sight lies Corsica, where was born the little island boy, so
proud, ambitious, and unscrupulous as emperor, so sad and disappointed
in his banishment and death; and then the long beautiful Riviera coast,
which the steamships for Genoa really skirt, permitting their
passengers to look into Nice, Bordighera, Monaco, San Remo, etc., and to
realize all the picturesque beauty of their mountain background--all
this gave three enchanting days to our little party before the ship
sailed into the harbor of Genoa, _La Superba_, a well-merited title.

The city seemed now like a jewel in green setting, as its softly colored
palaces, rising terrace above terrace, surrounded by rich tropical
foliage, glowed in the rays of the setting sun.

Here Mrs. Douglas was to meet her brother; and she, Malcom, and Margery
were full of eager excitement. It was hard to wait until the little
crowd of people collected on the wharf should separate into distinct
individuals.

"There he is! there is Uncle Robert! I see him!" cried Malcom. "He is
waving his handkerchief from the top of his cane!"

While Mrs. Douglas and Margery pressed forward to send some token of
recognition across the rapidly diminishing breadth of waters, Barbara
and Bettina sought with vivid interest the figure and face of one whom
they remembered but slightly, but of whom they had heard much. Robert
Sumner was a name often mentioned in their home for, as a boy, and young
man, he had been particularly dear to Dr. Burnett and had been held up
as a model of all excellence before his own boys.

Some six years before the time of our story he was to marry a beautiful
girl, who died almost on the eve of what was to have been their
marriage-day. Stunned by the affliction, the young artist bade good-by
to home and friends and went to Italy, feeling that he could bear his
loss only under new conditions; and, ever since,