In February, I moved with the Brodies to Florence, where I was able to introduce them to all my kind and hospitable friends,—­the Berensons, Mr. Charles Loeser, Mr. Herbert Horne, and Mr. Hobart Cust.  Flora was in every way a great success, and commenced a little book on Nera di Bicci for Bell’s Great Painters Series.  She was invited to contribute to the Burlington Magazine.  It was quite a primavera.  Our marriage was arranged for the following February.  The Brodies were to return to Hootawa after it was vacated by the American summer tenants.  I was to join them for Christmas on my return from America, where I was compelled to go in order to settle my affairs.  My father, Lorenzo Q. Sweat, of Chicago, evinced great pleasure at my approaching union with an old Scotch family; he promised me a handsome allowance considering his recent losses in the meat packing swindle—­I mean trade.  I was able to dissuade him from coming to Europe for the ceremony.  After delivering two successful lectures on Pietro Cavallini in the early fall at mothers’ soirees, I sailed for Liverpool.

There was deep snow on the ground when I arrived at Hootawa in the early afternoon of a cold December day.  The Colonel met me at the station in the uniform of the 69th, attended by two gillies holding torches.

“There will just be enough light to glance at the pictures before tea,” he said gaily, and in three-quarters of an hour I was embracing Flora and saluting her mother, who were in the hall to greet me.  For the most part Hootawa was a typical old Scotch castle, with extinguisher turrets; an incongruous Jacobean addition rather enhancing its picturesque ensemble.

“You’ll see better pictures here than anything in Rome,” remarked the Colonel; but Flora giggled rather nervously.

In the smoking-room and library, I inspected, with assumed interest, works by the little masters of Holland, and some more admirable examples of the English Eighteenth Century School.  Faithful to my promise, I pronounced every one of them to be little gems, unsurpassed by anything in the private collections of America or Europe.  We passed into the drawing-room and parlour with the same success.  In the latter apartment the Colonel, grasping my arm, said impressively:  “Now you will see our great treasure, the Brodie Vandyck, of which Flora has so often told you.  I have never lent it for exhibition, for, as you know, we are rather superstitious about it.  Sir Joshua Reynolds, in 1780, offered to paint the portraits of the whole family in exchange for the picture.  Dr. Waagen describes it in his well-known work.  Dr. Bode came from Berlin on purpose to see it some years ago, when he left a certificate (which was scarcely necessary) of its undoubted authenticity.  I was so touched by his genuine admiration, that I presented him with a small Dutch picture which he admired in the smoking-room, and thought not unworthy of placing in the Berlin Gallery.  I expect you know Dr. Bode.”