“It seems strange,” said Mr. Sumner one day, as they returned from the Academy, where they had been looking at casts and photographs of his sculptured works, “that though Michael Angelo was undoubtedly greatest as a sculptor, yet his most important works in the world of art are his paintings.  Those grand frescoes in the Sistine Chapel in Rome alone afforded him sufficient scope for his wonderful creative genius.  When we get to Rome I shall have much to tell you about them.”

* * * * *

The question as to the best thing to do for the remainder of the year was often talked over by Mrs. Douglas and Mr. Sumner.  Barbara, Bettina, Malcom, and Margery were so interested in their art study that it was finally thought best to travel in such a way that this could be continued to advantage, and they were now thinking of leaving Florence for Rome.

There had been one source of anxiety for some time, and that was the condition of Howard’s health.  Instead of gain there seemed to be a continual slow loss of strength that was perceptible especially to Mrs. Douglas.  He had recently won her sincere respect by the manful way in which he had struggled to conceal his love for Barbara.  So well did he succeed that Malcom thought he must have been mistaken in his conjecture, and the girls were as unconscious as ever.  In Bettina’s and Margery’s thought, he was especially Barbara’s friend, but in no other way than Malcom was Bettina’s; while Barbara was happier than she had been in a long time, as he showed less and less frequently signs of nervous irritability and hurt feelings whenever she disappointed him in any way, as of course she often could not help doing.

“Howard ought not to have spent the winter here in the cold winds of Florence,” Mrs. Douglas often had said to her brother.  “But what could we do?”

They were thinking of hastening their departure for Rome on his account, when one morning his servant came to the house in great alarm, to beg Mrs. Douglas to go to his young master at once.

“He is very ill,” he said, “and asks for you continually.”

When Mrs. Douglas and her brother reached Howard’s hotel, they found that already one of the most skilful physicians of the city was there, and that he wished to send for trained nurses.

“I fear pneumonia,” he said, “and the poor young man is indeed illy prepared to endure such a disease.”

“Spare no pains, no expense,” urged Mr. Sumner; “let the utmost possible be done.”

“I will stay with you,” said Mrs. Douglas, as the hot hand eagerly clasped hers.  “I will not leave you, my poor boy, while you are ill.”  And, sending for all she needed, she prepared to watch over him as if he were her own son.

But all endeavors to check the progress of the disease were futile.  The enfeebled lungs could offer no resistance.  One day, after having lain as if asleep for some time, Howard opened his eyes, to find Mrs. Douglas beside him.  With a faint smile he whispered:—­