contentedly began her life in Venice by telling Mr. Ferris, when he
came in the evening, that he could bring Don Ippolito the day after the
morrow, if he liked.

She and Florida sat on the terrace waiting for them on the morning
named, when Ferris, with the priest in his clerical best, came up the
garden path in the sunny light. Don Ippolito's best was a little
poverty-stricken; he had faltered a while, before leaving home, over
the sad choice between a shabby cylinder hat of obsolete fashion and
his well-worn three-cornered priestly beaver, and had at last put on
the latter with a sigh. He had made his servant polish the buckles of
his shoes, and instead of a band of linen round his throat, he wore a
strip ot cloth covered with small white beads, edged above and below
with a single row of pale blue ones.

As he mounted the steps with Ferris, Mrs. Vervain came forward a little
to meet them, while Florida rose and stood beside her chair in a sort
of proud suspense and timidity. The elder lady was in that black from
which she had so seldom been able to escape; but the daughter wore a
dress of delicate green, in which she seemed a part of the young season
that everywhere clothed itself in the same tint. The sunlight fell upon
her blonde hair, melting into its light gold; her level brows frowned
somewhat with the glance of scrutiny which she gave the dark young
priest, who was making his stately bow to her mother, and trying to
answer her English greetings in the same tongue.

"My daughter," said Mrs. Vervain, and Don Ippolito made another low
bow, and then looked at the girl with a sort of frank and melancholy
wonder, as she turned and exchanged a few words with Ferris, who was
assailing her seriousness and hauteur with unabashed levity of