Dr. Welwright got his patient a lodging on the Grand Canal in Venice, and decided to stay long enough to note the first effect of the air and the baths, and to look up a doctor to leave her with.

This took something more than a week, which could not all be spent in Mrs. Lander’s company, much as she wished it.  There were hours which he gave to going about in a gondola with Clementina, whom he forbade to be always at the invalid’s side.  He tried to reassure her as to Mrs. Lander’s health, when he found her rather mute and absent, while they drifted in the silvery sun of the late April weather, just beginning to be warm, but not warm enough yet for the tent of the open gondola.  He asked her about Mrs. Lander’s family, and Clementina could only tell him that she had always said she had none.  She told him the story of her own relation to her, and he said, “Yes, I heard something of that from Miss Milray.”  After a moment of silence, during which he looked curiously into the girl’s eyes, “Do you think you can bear a little more care, Miss Claxon?”

“I think I can,” said Clementina, not very courageously, but patiently.

“It’s only this, and I wouldn’t tell you if I hadn’t thought you equal to it.  Mrs. Lander’s case puzzles me:  But I shall leave Dr. Tradonico watching it, and if it takes the turn that there’s a chance it may take, he will tell you, and you’d better find out about her friends, and—­let them know.  That’s all.”

“Yes,” said Clementina, as if it were not quite enough.  Perhaps she did not fully realize all that the doctor had intended; life alone is credible to the young; life and the expectation of it.

The night before he was to return to Florence there was a full moon; and when he had got Mrs. Lander to sleep he asked Clementina if she would not go out on the lagoon with him.  He assigned no peculiar virtue to the moonlight, and he had no new charge to give her concerning his patient when they were embarked.  He seemed to wish her to talk about herself, and when she strayed from the topic, he prompted her return.  Then he wished to know how she liked Florence, as compared with Venice, and all the other cities she had seen, and when she said she had not seen any but Boston and New York, and London for one night, he wished to know whether she liked Florence as well.  She said she liked it best of all, and he told her he was very glad, for he liked it himself better than any place he had ever seen.  He spoke of his family in America, which was formed of grownup brothers and sisters, so that he had none of the closest and tenderest ties obliging him to return; there was no reason why he should not spend all his days in Florence, except for some brief visits home.  It would be another thing with such a place as Venice; he could never have the same settled feeling there:  it was beautiful, but it was unreal; it would be like spending one’s life at the opera.  Did not she think so?