soms of the
fruit-trees--a cloud of pink and snowy white--were gone, and the winter
loiterers on the sunny shore began to talk of home; or, if they were
travellers who had but stopped awhile on the way to Italy, they knew now
that the winds of the Apennines no longer chilled the beautiful streets
of Florence, and that all the lilies were out.

"Why could it not go on and on forever? Why must there always come that
last good-bye?" quoted Mrs. Clary.

"Because life is so sad," said Margaret.

"But I like to look forward," said Janet.

"We shall meet again," said Lloyd.

"The world," I remarked, sagely, "is composed of three classes of
persons--those who live in the present, those who live in the past, and
those who live in the future. The first class is the wisest."

[Illustration: VIEW FROM SANT' AGNESE]

Our last excursion was to Sant' Agnese. This little mountain village was
the highest point we attained on our donkeys, being two thousand two
hundred feet above the sea. Its one rugged little street, cut in the
side of the cliff, had an ancient weather-beaten little church at one
end and a lonely chapel at the other, with the village green in the
centre--a "green" which was but a smooth rock amphitheatre, with a
parapet protecting it from the precipice below. From this "green" there
was a grand view of the mountains, with the sharp point of the Aiguille
towering above them all. It was a village fete day, and we met the
little procession at the church door. First came the priests and
choir-boys, chanting; then the village girls, dressed in white, and
bearing upon a little platform an image of Saint Agnes; then youths with
streamers of colored ribbons on their arms; and, last, all the
villagers, two and two, dressed in their best, and carrying bunches of
flowers. Through the winding rocky street they marched, singing as they
went. When they arrived at the lonely chapel, Saint Agnes was borne in,
and prayers were offered, in which the village people joined, kneeling
on the ground outside, since there was not place for them within. Then
forth came Saint Agnes again, a hymn was started, in which all took
part, the little church bell pealed, and an old man touched off small
heaps of gunpowder placed at equal distances along the parapet, their
nearest approach, I suppose, to cannon. When the saint had reached her
shrine again in safety, her journeyings over until the next year, the
procession dissolved, and feasting be