V.

  There is a city, upbuilt on the quays of the turbulent Arno,
    Under Fiesole’s heights,—­thither are we to return? 
  There is a city that fringes the curve of the inflowing waters,
    Under the perilous hill fringes the beautiful bay,—­
  Parthenope do they call thee?—­the Siren, Neapolis, seated
    Under Vesevus’s hill,—­thither are we to proceed?—­
  Sicily, Greece, will invite, and the Orient;—­or are we to turn to
    England, which may after all be for its children the best?

  I.—­MARY TREVELLYN, at Lucerne, TO MISS ROPER, at Florence.

  So you are really free, and living in quiet at Florence;
  That is delightful news;—­you travelled slowly and safely;
  Mr. Claude got you out; took rooms at Florence before you;
  Wrote from Milan to say so; had left directly for Milan,
  Hoping to find us soon;—­if he could, he would, you are
       certain.—­
  Dear Miss Roper, your letter has made me exceedingly happy. 
    You are quite sure, you say, he asked you about our intentions;
  You had not heard of Lucerne as yet, but told him of Como.—­
  Well, perhaps he will come;—­however, I will not expect it. 
  Though you say you are sure,—­if he can, he will, you are
       certain.
  O my dear, many thanks from your ever affectionate Mary.

  II.—­CLAUDE TO EUSTACE.

  Florence.

  Action will furnish belief,—­but will that belief be the true
       one? 
  This is the point, you know.  However, it doesn’t much matter
  What one wants, I suppose, is to predetermine the action,
  So as to make it entail, not a chance-belief, but the true one.
  Out of the question, you say, if a thing isn’t wrong, we
       may do it.
  Ah! but this wrong, you see;—­but I do not know that it matters. 
    Eustace, the Ropers are gone, and no one can tell me about them.

  Pisa.

  Pisa, they say they think; and so I follow to Pisa,
  Hither and thither inquiring.  I weary of making inquiries;
  I am ashamed, I declare, of asking people about it.—­
  Who are your friends?  You said you had friends who would certainly
       know them.

  Florence.

  But it is idle, moping, and thinking, and trying to fix her
  Image more and more in, to write the old perfect inscription
  Over and over again upon every page of remembrance. 
    I have settled to stay at Florence to wait for your answer. 
  Who are your friends?  Write quickly and tell me.  I wait for your
       answer.

  III.—­MARY TREVELLYN TO MISS ROPER, at Lucca Baths.