“I think it is still better from Mrs. Baske’s sitting-room,” said Eleanor, who had been watching Cecily, and thought that she might be glad of an opportunity of private talk with Miriam.  And Cecily at once availed herself of the suggestion.

“Would you let me see it, Miriam?” she asked.  “If it is not troublesome—­”

Miriam rose, and they went out together.  In silence they passed along the corridor, and when they had entered her room Miriam walked at once to the window.  Then she half turned, and her eyes fell before Cecily’s earnest gaze.

“I did so wish to be with you in your illness!” said the girl, with affectionate warmth.  “Indeed, I would have come if I could have been of any use.  After all the trouble you used to have with my wretched headaches and ailments—­”

“You never have anything of the kind now,” said Miriam, with her indulgent smile.

“Never.  I am in what Mr. Mallard calls aggressive health.  But it shocks me to see how pale you still are Miriam.  I thought the voyage and these ten days at Naples—­And you have such a careworn look.  Cannot you throw off your troubles under this sky?”

“You know that the sky matters very little to me, Cecily.”

“If I could give you only half my delight!  I was awake before dawn this morning, and it was impossible to lie still I dressed and stood at the open window.  I couldn’t see the sun itself as it rose, but I watched the first beams strike on Capri and the sea; and I tried to make a drawing of the island as it then looked,—­a poor little daub, but it will be precious in bringing back to my mind all I felt when I was busy with it.  Such feeling I have never known; as if every nerve in me had received an exquisite new sense.  I keep saying to myself, ‘Is this really Naples?’ Let us go on to the balcony.  Oh, you must be glad with me!”

Freed from the constraint of formal colloquy, and overcoming the slight embarrassment caused by what she knew of Miriam’s thoughts, Cecily revealed her nature as it lay beneath the graces with which education had endowed her.  This enthusiasm was no new discovery to Miriam, but in the early days it had attached itself to far other things.  Cecily seemed to have forgotten that she was ever in sympathy with the mood which imposed silence on her friend.  Her eyes drank light from the landscape; her beauty was transfigured by passionate reception of all the influences this scene could exercise upon heart and mind.  She leaned on the railing of the balcony, and gazed until tears of ecstasy made her sight dim.

“Let us see much of each other whilst we are here,” she said suddenly, turning to Miriam.  “I could never have dreamt of our being together in Italy; it is a happy fate, and gives me all kinds of hope.  We will be often alone together in glorious places.  We will talk it over; that is better than writing.  You shall understand me, Miriam.  You shall get as well and strong as I am, and know what I mean when I speak of the joy of living.  We shall be sisters again, like we used to be.”