Ah, Mary, that moment’s blank dismay!  But it was because she thought me some bold, intruding stranger.  When she saw my face, she came to me, and gave me both her hands, saying,—­

“Mr. ——!  Is it possible?  I am happy that you are so well!”

It was genuine joy; and for a moment we were both simply glad for that one reason,—­that I was well.

“You seem so tall!” she said, with a rather more conscious tone.  She began to infer what my recovery and presence imported to her.  I felt thrilling all over me what they were to me!

But I must say something.  It is not customary to call upon young ladies, of whom you have never dared to consider yourself other than an acquaintance merely, and hold their hands while you listen to their hearts beating.  This I must refrain from doing,—­and that instantly.

“Yes,” I stammered, “I am well,—­I am quite well.”  Then, losing all remembrance of etiquette——­But you must divine what followed.  Truly

  “God’s gifts put man’s best dreams to
  shame!”

P.S.—­Kate will send you her cards, and Ada ours, together with the proper ceremonious invitations to the weddings, as soon as things are arranged.

AMOURS DE VOYAGE.

[Continued.]

III

  Yet to the wondrous St. Peter’s, and yet to the solemn Rotonda,
    Mingling with heroes and gods, yet to the Vatican walls,
  Yet may we go, and recline, while a whole mighty world seems above us
    Gathered and fixed to all time into one roofing supreme;
  Yet may we, thinking on these things, exclude what is meaner around
       us;
    Yet, at the worst of the worst, books and a chamber remain;
  Yet may we think, and forget, and possess our souls in resistance.—­
    Ah, but away from the stir, shouting, and gossip of war,
  Where, upon Apennine slope, with the chestnut the oak-trees immingle,
    Where amid odorous copse bridle-paths wander and wind,
  Where under mulberry-branches the diligent rivulet sparkles,
    Or amid cotton and maize peasants their waterworks ply,
  Where, over fig-tree and orange in tier upon tier still repeated,
    Garden on garden upreared, balconies step to the sky,—­
  Ah, that I were, far away from the crowd and the streets of the city,
    Under the vine-trellis laid, O my beloved, with thee!

  I.—­MARY TREVELLYN TO MISS ROPER,—­on the way to Florence.

  Why doesn’t Mr. Claude come with us? you ask.—­We don’t know. 
  You should know better than we.  He talked of the Vatican marbles;
  But I can’t wholly believe that this was the actual reason,—­
  He was so ready before, when we asked him to come and escort us. 
  Certainly he is odd, my dear Miss Roper.  To change so
  Suddenly, just for a whim, was not quite