randest man alive. I always feel when he talks as if
nothing were too difficult to attempt; as if nothing were too beautiful
to believe. And he is so young too, in feeling; so wise and yet so full
of sympathy with all our young nonsense. He is simply perfect." And she
drew a long breath.

"I think so too; and he practises what he preaches in his own painting.
For don't you remember those pictures we saw in his studio the other
day? How he has painted those Egyptian scenes! A perfect tremor ran over
me as I felt the terrible, solemn loneliness of that one camel and his
rider in the limitless stretch of desert. I felt quite as he must have
felt, I am sure; and the desert will always seem a different thing to me
because I looked at that picture. And then that sweet, strong,
overcoming woman's face! How much she had lived through! What a lesson
of triumph over all weakness and sorrow it teaches! I am so thankful
every minute that dear Mrs. Douglas asked us to come with her, that our
darling papa and mamma allowed us to come, and that everything is so
pleasant in this dear, delightful Florence."

And Bettina fell asleep almost the minute her head rested on her
pillow, with a happy smile curving her beautiful lips.

But Barbara tossed long on the little white bed in the opposite corner
of the room. It was difficult to go to sleep, so many thoughts crowded
upon her. Finally she resolutely set herself to recall Mr. Sumner's
words of the evening. Then, as she remembered the little lingering of
his eyes upon her own as he bade his group of listeners good night, the
glad thought came, "He knows I am trying to learn, and that I appreciate
all he is doing for me," and so her last thought was not for the new
friend the day had brought, but for Robert Sumner.

Chapter V.

Straws Show which Way the Wind Blows.

_Give these, I exhort you, their guerdon and glory
For daring so much before they well did it_.

--BROWNING.

[Illustration: SANTA MARIA NOVELLA, FLORENCE.]

It was a charming morning in early November when Mr. Sumner and his
little company of students of Florentine art gathered before the broad
steps which lead up to the entrance of Santa Maria Novella. The Italian
sky, less soft than in midsummer, gleamed brightly blue. The square
tower of the old Fiesole Cathedral had been sharply defined as they
turned to look at it when leaving their home; and Giotto's Campanile, of
which they had caught a gli