This very morning they had driven with Mrs. Douglas through some of the
oldest parts of Florence. They were reading together George Eliot's
"Romola," and were connecting all its events with this city in which the
scenes are laid. Read in this way, it seemed like a new book to them,
and possessed an air of reality that awakened their enthusiasm as
nothing else could have done. And then in the afternoon had been the
meeting with the new friend; tea in the little garden behind the house;
and the evening on the balcony.

Naturally their conversation soon turned to Howard Sinclair.

"What a strange life for one so young!" said Bettina. "Malcom says there
is no limit to his wealth. He lives in the winter in one of those
grandest houses on Commonwealth Avenue in Boston, and has summer houses
in two or three places. And yet how poor in many ways!" she continued
after a little pause--"so much poorer than we! No father and mother,--no
brothers and sisters,--and forced to leave his home because he is so
ill! Poor fellow! How do you like him, Bab? He seemed to admire you
sufficiently, for he hardly took his eyes from you."

"Like him?" slowly returned Barbara. "To tell the truth, Betty, I hardly
know. Somehow I feel strangely about him. I like him well enough so far,
but I believe I am a bit afraid, and whether it is of him or not, I
cannot tell. Somehow I feel as if things are going to be different from
what they have been, and--I don't know--I believe I almost wish Malcom
had not known him."

"Why, Bab dear! what do you mean? Don't be nervous; that is not like
you. Nothing could happen to make us unhappy while we are with these
dear people,--nothing, that is, if our dear ones at home are well. I