p, Malcom," cried Bettina, "just here at the angel! Why! I think
he is perfectly beautiful with one hand on St. Joachim's head and the
other on St. Anna's. He is blessing them and drawing them together and
forgiving, all in one."

"And the people, all of them! just look at the people!" cried Barbara,
impetuously. "Each one is thinking of something, and I seem to know what
it is! How could--" But her voice faltered, and stopped abruptly.

"It is not difficult to understand what Howard is thinking of,"
whispered Malcom in Bettina's ear. "Did you see what a look he gave
Barbara? I don't believe she likes it."

Mr. Sumner, turning, surprised the same look in the young man's eyes and
gave a quick, inquiring glance at the fair, flushed face of Barbara. He
felt annoyed, without knowing exactly why. A new and foreign element had
been introduced into the little group, whose influence was not to be
transient.

After a few more words, in which he told them to notice the type of
Giotto's faces--the eyes set near together, their too great length,
though much better in this respect than Cimabue's, and the broad,
rounded chins--they turned away.

"We have seen all we ought to stay here for to-day, and now we will
drive over to Santa Croce. There are also notable frescoes by Giotto in
Assisi, and especially in the Arena Chapel, Padua. Perhaps we may see
them all by and by."

On leaving the church, Bettina looked back, saying:--

"This is the church that Michael Angelo used to call 'his bride.'"

"Used to," laughed Malcom. "You have gone back centuries this morning,
Betty."

"I feel so. I should not be one bit surprised to meet some of these old
artists right here in the Piazza on their way to their work."

"Let us go over to Santa Croce by way of the Duomo, and through Piazza
Signoria, Uncle," said Margery. "I am never tired of those little,
narrow, crooked streets."

"Yes, that will be a good way; for then we shall go right past Giotto's
Campanile, and though you have seen it often you will look upon it with
especial interest just now, when we are studying his work."

At Santa Croce they were to meet Mrs. Douglas by appointment; and as
they pressed on through the broad nave, lined on either side by massive
monuments to Florence's great dead, they espied her at the entrance of
the Bardi Chapel in conversation with a lady whose slender figure and
bright, animated face grew familiar to the young people of the steamship
as