"You know we go to Rome to-morrow, and I prophesy no one of us will feel
like sparing much time for writing during our first days there," she
said.

Barbara and Bettina spent an hour on their home-letter, then stole away
alone, and finding a secluded spot on the grand terrace in front of
their hotel, sat down, with the great valley before them. The blue sky,
so clear and blue, was full of great white puffs of cloud whose shadows
were most fascinating to watch as they danced over the plain,--now
hiding a distant city,--now permitting just a gleam of sunshine to gild
its topmost towers; and anon flitting, leaving that city-crowned summit
all in light, while another was enveloped in darkness.

They talked long together, as only two girls who love each other can
talk--of the sky and the land; of the impressions daily received; of the
thoughts born of their present daily experiences; of the home friends
from whom they were so widely separated. Then they grew silent, giving
themselves to the dreamy beauty of the scene.

By and by Barbara, her eyes dark with unwonted feeling, turned
impulsively to her sister and began to talk of that which had been so
often in her mind,--her visit to Howard just before he died. Something
now impelled her to tell that of which she had before kept silence. Her
voice trembled as she described the scene--the eyes that spoke so much
when the voice was already forever silent--and the wonderful love she
saw in them when she gave the tender kiss.

"He did love you, did he not, Bab dear?" said Bettina, in a hushed,
awestricken voice.