Robert Sumner was perplexed and distressed. He had just begun to enjoy a certain happiness. The struggle within himself was over, and he was beginning to give himself up to the delight of thinking freely of Barbara; of loving her; of feeling a sort of possession of her, though he did not yet dream of such a thing as ever being to her more than he now was,—a valued friend. There were so many years, and an experience of life that counted far more than years, between them!

He had listened to his sister's conversation with Miss Sherman on the way from Pompeii to Sorrento with an exultation which it would have been difficult for him to account for. He gloried in the sweet unselfishness, the simple goodness of the young girl. "My little Barbara," his heart sang; and full of this emotion when they reached Sorrento, he allowed the two ladies to go alone into the hotel, while he waited impatiently to look into Barbara's face and to feel the touch of her hand.

But what a change! What could have wrought it? Before this, she had always met his look with such frank sympathy! As the days passed on without change, and his eyes, more than any others, noticed the struggle to conceal her unhappiness, the mystery deepened.



Chapter XVII.

Robert Sumner is Imprudent.

Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well— When our deep plots do pall; and that should teach us, There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will.

—SHAKESPEARE.



Early one morning very soon after the return to Rome, Bettina, with a troubled face, knocked at Mrs. Douglas's door.

"Barbara is ill," said she. "I knew in the night that she was very restless, but not until just now did I see that she is really ill."

"What seems to be the matter?"

"I think she must be very feverish."

"Feverish?" repeated Mrs. Douglas, with a startled look, as she hastily prepared to accompany Betty back to her room. In a few minutes she sought her brother, her face full of anxiety.

"Robert, I fear Barbara has the fever. Her temperature must be high; her face is greatly flushed, and her eyes dull, and she says her whole body is full of pain."

"We must take her away at once out of the atmosphere of Rome," exclaimed Mr. Sumner, with decision.

"But she feels so wretchedly ill."

"Never mind that. If she can only endure the fatigue for a few hours, we may save her weeks of suffering and possible danger," and his voice faltered.

"Remember, sister," he continued, "that I am at home here in this climate, and trust me. Or, better still, I will at once consult Dr. Yonge, and I know you will trust him. And, sister, get everything ready so that we—Barbara, you, and I—may take the very first train for Orvieto. That will take her in two hours into a high and pure atmosphere. The others can follow as soon as possible."

Quickly the plans were made. Malcom, Margery, and Bettina were to be left to complete the packing of trunks. Dr. Yonge agreed fully with Mr. Sumner, and on the nine o'clock train northward Mrs. Douglas, Barbara, and Mr. Sumner left Rome.

Miss Sherman, quite upset by the rapid movement of affairs, decided to remain a little longer in Rome with friends whom she had met there, and join the others later in Venice.

It was a severe trial to poor Bettina to see her darling sister thus almost literally borne away from her. But she tried to put faith in Mr. Sumner's assurances, and bravely resisted the anxious longing to go with her. She immediately gave herself up to the work of finishing the packing of their own trunks and of helping Margery all she could.

Mr. Sumner had commissioned Malcom to go up to his studio and gather into boxes all his canvases and painting materials; and soon all three were working as fast as they could, with the design of following the others the next morning.

Presently Malcom appeared at Bettina's door with the request that she should go up to the studio when she could leave her work for a minute.

"Come alone—by yourself," he added in a low voice.

Wondering a little at the singular request and the peculiar expression of Malcom's face, Bettina soon followed him.

Entering the studio, she found him attentively regarding a small canvas which he had placed on an easel, and took her place beside him that she might look at it also.

"How lovely!" she cried, and then a puzzled look came into her eyes.

"Why, it is Barbara! It is like Barbara," she added.

"And what do you think of this—and this—and this?" asked Malcom, rapidly turning from the wall study after study.

After a few moments of silence, she said solemnly: "They're all Barbara. Here she is thinking earnestly; here she is throwing her head proudly back, as she so often does; and here she is merry and smiling in her own adorable way. O you darling Barbara!" with a pathetic little catch of the breath; "how are you feeling just this minute?" and Bettina sank upon the floor beside the pictures, looking as if she longed to hug them all.

"But what does it mean?" persisted Malcom.

"What do you mean?" springing up with a quick look into his eyes. "You—foolish—boy!" as an inkling of Malcom's meaning crept into her mind.

"What does it mean, Betty Burnett, that my uncle has had nothing better to do when he has so zealously labored up here, than to paint your sister's face in every conceivable way?" slowly and impressively asked Malcom, as he put still another tell-tale sketch over that on the easel.

"You do not really mean!—it can't be!—Oh!" uttered Bettina in diverse tones and inflections as she rapidly recalled, one after another, certain incidents.

Then there was silence in Robert Sumner's studio between these two discoverers of his long-cherished secret.

"Malcom," at length whispered Bettina, "we must never breathe one word about what we have found here. You must not tell Margery or your mother. Promise me that it shall be a solemn secret between you and me."

"I promise, Lady Betty. Your behest shall be sacredly regarded," replied Malcom with mock gravity. "But," after a little, "shall you tell Barbara?"

"Tell Barbara? No! no! How could I tell her! Malcom, don't you know that it is only by a chance that we have found these pictures? That, whatever they may mean is absolutely sacred to your uncle? Perhaps they mean nothing—nothing save that he, from an artist's stand-point, admires my sister's face. Indeed, the more I think of it, the more I am inclined to believe that is all," she persisted, as she saw Malcom's expressive shrug and the comical look in his eyes as he moved them slowly along the half-dozen sketches that were now standing in a row.

"And I shall think no more about it," she added, "and advise you to do the same."

Bettina, who was usually so gentle, could be prettily imperious when she chose. And now, wrought up by Malcom's reference to Barbara and her own fast crowding thoughts, her voice took on this tone, and she turned with high head to leave the studio.

"Betty! Betty!" pleaded Malcom, running after her. "Why, Betty!" and the surprised, pained tone of his voice instantly stopped her on the staircase.

"I do not mean anything disagreeable, Malcom," she conceded, "only I could not bear to have anything said about Barbara or to Barbara, that might in any way disturb her. That is all,—forgive me, Malcom." And the two friends clasped hands.

Malcom went back into the studio, his pursed lips emitting a low, meditative whistle, while Bettina hurried downstairs, her mind beset with conjectures.

It was not Mr. Sumner of whom she was thinking, but her sister. A veil seemed to withdraw before her consciousness, and to reveal the possible meaning of much that had perplexed her during the past months. For if Mr. Sumner had really been learning to love Barbara, might it not also be that Barbara cared more for him than Bettina had been wont to think?

Her thoughts went back to many of their first conversations after coming to Florence; to Barbara's intense absorption in Mr. Sumner's talks about the old painters; to her unwearied study of them; to her evident sympathy with him on all occasions.

Then, in a flash she remembered her faintness in the carriage on the drive to Sorrento and connected it, as she had never before dreamed of doing, with the conversation then going on; and recalled all those days since when she had been so different from the old-time Barbara.

And poor Bettina sat, a disconsolate little figure, before her half-filled trunk, just ready to cry with sheer vexation at her blindness. Then, the thought came that if Mr. Sumner did really love Barbara all would be well. But, alas! the doubt followed whether, after all, the pictures meant anything more than the artist's love for a beautiful face, and his desire to render it on his canvas. She grew more and more miserable in her sympathy for her sister, and at her enforced separation from her, and the hours of that day, though of necessity busy ones, seemed almost interminable.

The following noon found them together again.

Bettina entered her sister's room, which opened full upon the rose-garden they had enjoyed before,—now filled with blossoms and fragrance,—to find Barbara sitting in a big easy-chair, with a tray before her, on which were spread toast and tea, flanked by a dainty flask of Orvieto wine, while the same wrinkled old chambermaid who had served them two and a half months ago stood, with beaming face, watching her efforts to eat.

Barbara's eyes were brighter, the flush gone from her face, and she said she did not feel like the same girl who had been half carried away from the hotel in Rome the morning before. So much improved did she seem that the present plan was to take a late afternoon train for Florence, for Mr. Sumner said the sooner they could get farther north, the better it would be. This was carried out, and night found them back in the dear Florence home, there to spend a few days.

The city was very lovely in its May foliage and blossoms,—too lovely to leave so soon, they all averred. But it must be, and after having taken again their favorite drives, and having given another look at their favorite pictures, with an especial interest in those by the Venetian masters whom they would study more fully in Venice, they turned their faces northward.

The journey at first took them through rich Tuscan plains, and later through wild, picturesque ravines of the Apennines. Higher and higher the railway climbed, threading numberless tunnels, and affording magnificent views as it emerged into opening after opening, until finally it passed under the height that divides the watershed of the Adriatic and Tyrrhenian seas, and entered the narrow and romantic valley of the Reno. Not long after they were in the ancient city of Bologna. After a few minutes in their several rooms, all gathered in the loggia of their hotel, which commanded a grand survey of the city.

"How fine this air is after our long, dusty ride!" exclaimed Margery, tossing back her curls to catch the breeze.

"I did not expect to find Bologna so curiously beautiful," said Bettina, after she had seen that Barbara was comfortable in the big chair Malcom had wheeled out for her—for she was still languid from her recent illness, and tired easily.

"Please tell us something about it, uncle," said Malcom. "I am afraid I have not looked it up very thoroughly."

So Mr. Sumner told them many interesting things about the old city,—and how it had figured largely in Italian history from the Punic wars soon after Christ, down to the middle of the present century, when it finally became a part of United Italy.

"What about the university?" queried Malcom again.

"It has had a grand reputation for about fourteen centuries, and thus is among the most ancient existing seats of learning in Christendom. During the Middle Ages students came to it from all parts of northern Europe."

Bettina laughed. "I read a curious thing about it in my guide-book," said she. "That it has had several women professors; and one who was very beautiful always sat behind a curtain while she delivered her lectures. This was in the fourteenth century, I believe."

"A wise precaution," exclaimed Malcom, with a quizzical look. "Even I sometimes forget what a pretty woman is saying, because my thoughts are wandering from the subject to her face. And the men of those times could not have had the constant experience we of this century in America have."

"Don't be silly," smiled Bettina; and Mrs. Douglas, slipping her hand through Malcom's arm, asked: "Do you see those towers?"

"Yes; and uncle, I remember you spoke of the leaning towers of Bologna when we were at Pisa; what about them?"

"I think I simply said that since I had seen these towers, I have believed that the one at Pisa had been intentionally built in the way it now stands. My reason is that in all probability one of these was purposely so built."

"Which was erected first?"

"This, about two hundred and fifty years."

"Let us go and see them at once!" exclaimed Malcom. "There is time to give a good long look at the city before dinner."

"That is a good plan," said his mother, "and we will not go to the picture-gallery until to-morrow morning. Then Barbara will be fresh, and can enjoy it with the rest of us."

Mr. Sumner turned solicitously toward Barbara, with a movement as if to go to her, but her hastily averted eyes checked him, and with an inward sigh, he went to order carriages for the proposed drive. He had grown to believe during the past week or two that Barbara had divined his love for her, and that the knowledge was very painful.

"I must have thoughtlessly disclosed it," said he to himself. "It has become so much a part of my every thought. The best thing I can do now is to convince her that it shall never cause her the slightest annoyance; that it shall not change the frankly affectionate relations that have heretofore existed between us. She is so young she will forget it as she grows stronger, or perhaps I can make her feel that she has mistaken me. Then she will be my little friend again."

The drive was thoroughly delightful. Bologna possesses many individual characteristics. The very narrow streets, the lofty arcades that stretch along on either side of them, the many venerable churches and palaces, the quaintly picturesque towers, kept them exclaiming with pleasure.

"Can we not walk to the Academy?" asked Margery, the next morning. "I do so wish to walk through some of these dear arcades."

So Barbara drove with Mrs. Douglas, and the others walked right through the heart of the old city, whose streets have echoed to the footfalls of countless and diverse people through a number of centuries that sounds appalling to American ears.

Arrived at the picture-gallery, Mr. Sumner told them that though not of very great importance when compared with many which they had visited, it yet is very interesting on account of its collection of the works of the most noted seventeenth-century Italian painters; especially those belonging to the Bolognese-eclectic school, which was founded by the Carracci.

"Nowhere else can these men, the Carracci, be studied as here in Bologna, where they founded their art-school just at the close of the sixteenth century. There are also some very good examples of the work of Domenichino, Guido Reni, Albani, and other famous pupils of the Carracci. You saw fine frescoes by Domenichino and Guido Reni in Rome and Naples, and I am sure you remember perfectly Domenichino's Communion of St. Jerome in the Vatican Gallery.

"Perhaps," he continued, with an inquiring look, "you know the principle on which this school of painting was founded, and which gave it its name."

Bettina answered: "I think they tried to select the best pictures from all other schools and embody them in their own pictures. I do not think," she added, with something of a deprecatory look, "that it can be called a very original style."

"Few styles of painting after the earliest masters can be called original, can they?" replied Mr. Sumner, with a smile. "One great lack of the human race is a spirit of originality. We all go to those who have thought and wrought before us, and hash and rehash their material. But few tell what they are doing so plainly as did the Carracci. The one great want in their painting is that of any definite end or aim."

"Whom do you call the greatest painters of the school, uncle?" asked Malcom, as they entered a large hall opening from the corridor in which they had been standing.

"Guido Reni and Domenichino merit that honor, I think. Domenichino died young, but painted some excellent pictures, notably the St. Jerome. Guido Reni lived long enough to outlive his good painting, but among his early works are some that may really be called the masterpieces of this school; such as the Aurora and the St. Michael which you saw in Rome."

"What do you mean by his outliving his good painting?" asked Margery.

"He grew most careless in his ways of living,—was dissipated we should call it,—squandered his money, and finally, in order to gain the wherewithal for daily life, used to paint by order of those who stood waiting to take his pictures with paint still wet, lest the artist should cheat them. To this we owe the great number of his worthless Madonna and Magdalen heads that have found their way into the galleries."

"How perfectly dreadful," chorused all.

"I am afraid we shall never see one of his pictures without thinking of this," said Bettina; "shall we, Barbara?" and she turned to her sister, who had been silent hitherto, as if longing to hear her talk.

"Try to forget it now as you look at these paintings, for this room contains many of his," continued Mr. Sumner, after waiting a moment as if to hear Barbara's answer, "and they are examples of his early work, and so stronger than many others. Notice the powerful action of this Samson and the St. John in that Crucifixion.

"Here are good examples of the work of the three Carracci," continued he, as after a time they entered the adjoining hall.

"But what does this mean?" cried Malcom, in an astonished voice, pausing before a large picture, the Communion of St. Jerome, which bore the name, Agostino Carracci. "How like it is to Domenichino's great picture in the Vatican! Do you suppose Domenichino borrowed so much from his master?"

"I fear so. Yet his picture is infinitely superior to this. And, look, here is Domenichino's Death of St. Peter, Martyr, which was borrowed largely from Titian's famous picture of the same subject, which has unfortunately been destroyed."

"But don't you call that a species of plagiarism?" queried Malcom.

"Undoubtedly it is. I must confess I am always sorry for Domenichino when I come into this hall. But we will pass on to better things. I wish you to study particularly these pictures by Francia," said he, as they entered a third hall.—"Yes, Betty, you are excusable. You all may look first at Raphael's St. Cecilia, for here it is."

All gathered about the beautiful, famous picture.

"How much larger than I have ever thought!" said Margery. "For what was it painted, uncle?"

"As an altar-piece for one of the oldest churches in Bologna. Do you recollect the story about Raphael's writing to Francia to oversee its proper and safe placing?"

"Oh, I do!" exclaimed Barbara, as Margery shook her head. "It was said that Francia never painted again, so overcome was he by the surpassing loveliness of Raphael's picture, and that he died from the effect of this feeling,—but," she went on impetuously, "I do not believe it; for see there!" pointing to Francia's Madonna with Sts. John and Jerome, "do you think that the artist who painted this picture is so very far behind even Raphael as to die of vexation at the difference between them?"

Barbara was so carried away by the picture that she had forgotten herself entirely, and spoke with her old-time frank eagerness, thereby thoroughly delighting Bettina and Mr. Sumner.

"I am glad you feel so," said the latter, very quietly, and with a strictly impersonal manner. "Francia, who belonged to the old Bolognese masters of the sixteenth century, was one of the most devout of painters, and everybody who studies his work must love it. See how pure and sweet are his expressions! How simple his composition! What harmony is in his coloring! How beyond those who painted after him!"



They tarried long before Francia's paintings and the St. Cecilia. Mr. Sumner told them to note the more subtle motif of Raphael's picture; the superior grace of the figures, their careful distribution, and the fine scheme of color; the sympathetic look in St. John's face; the grandly meditative St. Paul.

"I have a theory of my own about the meaning of this picture," said Bettina. "I thought it out one day when I was studying the photograph. I know it is always said, in descriptions of it, that all are listening to the music of the angels, but I do not think any of them save St. Cecilia hear the music of the angelic choir. She hears it, because she has so longed for it,—so striven to produce the highest music on earth. But the others are only moved by their sympathy with her. See the wistful look on St. John's face, and St. Augustine's also. And St. Paul is lost in wondering thought at St. Cecilia's emotion. And Mary Magdalene is asking us to look at her and try to understand her rapt upward look."

"I do not know," said Mr. Sumner, with a soft look in his eyes, "why you should not have your own private interpretation of the picture, dear 'Lady Betty';" and he smiled at Malcom as he used the latter's favorite appellation for Bettina.



Chapter XVIII.

In Venice.

From the land we went As to a floating city—steering in, And gliding up her streets as in a dream By many a pile in more than eastern pride, Of old the residence of merchant-kings: The fronts of some, tho' time had shattered them, Still gleaming with the richest hues of art, As though the wealth within them had run o'er.

—ROGERS.



Just after sunset the following evening they approached Venice. The long black train glided along above a sea flushed with purple and crimson and gold. Like a mirage the fair city—Longfellow's "white water-lily, cradled and caressed"—arose, lifting her spires—those "filaments of gold"—above the waters.

"Can it be real?" murmured Bettina. "It seems as if all must fade away before we reach it."

But in a few minutes the facchini seized their hand-luggage, and they alighted as at any commonplace railway-station. But oh! the revelation when they went out upon the platform, up to which, not carriages, but gondolas were drawn, and from which stretched, not a dusty pavement, but the same gold and crimson and purple of sky reflected in the waters at their feet.

"Is it true that we are mortal beings still on the earth, and that we are seeking merely a hotel?" exclaimed Malcom, as they floated on between two skies to the music of lapping oars. "Madge, you ought to have some poetry to fit this."

"I know enough verses about Venice," replied Margery, whose eyes were dancing with joyous excitement, and who was trailing her little hot hand through the cool water, "but nothing fits. Nothing can fit; for who could ever put into words the beauty of all this?"

By and by they left the Grand Canal, passed through narrower ones, with such high walls on either side that twilight rapidly succeeded the sunset glow; floated beneath the Bridge of Sighs, and were at the steps of their hotel.

The next few days were devoted wholly to drinking in the spirit of Venice. Mr. Sumner hired gondolas which should be at the service of his party during the month they were to spend there, and morning, noon, and night found them revelling in this delight. They went to San Marco in early morning and late afternoon; fed the pigeons in the Piazza; ate ice-cream under its Colonnade; went to the Lido, and floated along the Grand Canal beside the music and beneath the moonlight for hours at night, and longed to be there until the morning.

Barbara grew stronger, the color returned to her cheeks, and though she often felt unhappy, she was better able to conceal it. She began to hope that her secret was safe; that it would never be discovered by any one; that Mr. Sumner would never dream of it. If only that dreadful suggestion of Malcom's might be wholly without foundation; and perhaps, after all, it was. She thought she would surely know when Lucile Sherman should come to Venice, as she would do soon.

At length Mr. Sumner suggested that they begin to study Venetian painting, and that, for it, they should first visit the Accademia delle Belle Arti. He advised them to read what they could about early Venetian painting.

"You will find," he said, "that the one strongest characteristic of all the painting that has emanated from Venice is beauty and strength of color, the keynote of which seems to have been struck in the first mosaic decorations of San Marco, more than eight centuries ago. And how could it be otherwise in a city so flooded with radiance of color and light!"

"I have brought you here," said he one morning, as they left their gondolas at the steps of the Academy, "for the special study of Carpaccio's and the Bellinis' works.

"But," he added, as they entered the building and stepped into the first room, "I would like you to stop for a few minutes and look at these quaint pictures by the Vivarini, Basaiti, Bissolo, and others of the early Venetian painters. Here you will notice the first characteristics of the school. This academy is particularly interesting to students of Venetian art, because it contains few other than Venetian paintings."

Passing on, they soon reached a hall whose walls were lined with large pictures. Here Mr. Sumner paused, saying:—

"We find in this room quite a number of paintings by Vittore Carpaccio. Here is his most noted series, illustrating scenes in the legendary life of St. Ursula, the maiden princess of Brittany, who, with her eleven thousand companions, visited the holy shrines of the old world; and on their return all were martyred just outside the city of Cologne. You have read the story, I know. Look first at the general scheme of composition and color before going near enough to study details. Carpaccio had felt the flood of Venetian color, and here we see the beginnings of that wonderful richness found in works by the later Venetian masters. He was a born story-teller, and delighted especially in tales of a legendary, poetic character. His works possess a peculiar fascinating quaintness. The formal composition, by means of which we see several scenes crowded into one picture; the singular perspective effects; the figures with earnest faces beneath such heavy blond tresses, and with their too short bodies, enable us easily to recognize his pictures."

"I think I shall choose St. Ursula to be my patron saint," said Margery, thoughtfully, after they had turned from the purely artistic study of the pictures to their sentiment. "I have read somewhere that she is the especial patroness of young girls, as well as of those who teach young girls,—so she can rightfully belong to me, you see."

"What do you think she will do for you?" asked Malcom, with a quizzical smile.

"Oh! I don't know. Perhaps if I think enough about her life I shall be a better girl," and the blue eyes grew very earnest.

"That is wholly unnecessary, Madge mia," tenderly replied her brother.

"I will tell you a singular thing that I read not long ago," said Bettina, going over to Margery, who was standing close in front of that sweet sleeping face of St. Ursula in one of the pictures. "It was in the life of Mr. Ruskin. His biographer says that Mr. Ruskin is wonderfully fond of the legend of St. Ursula; that he has often come from England to Venice just to look again on these pictures by old Carpaccio; that he has thought so much about her character that he really is influenced greatly by it. And he goes on to say that some person who has perhaps received a calm, kind letter from Mr. Ruskin instead of the curt, brusque, or impatient one that he had looked for, on account of the irascible nature of the writer, would be altogether surprised could he know that the reason of the unexpected quietness was that Mr. Ruskin had stopped to ask himself, 'What would St. Ursula say? What would St. Ursula do?'"

"I think that is a pretty story about Mr. Ruskin, don't you?" she added, turning to Malcom and the others.

"It is a pretty enough story," replied Malcom. "But I confess I do not wish Madge always to stop and ask the mind of this leader of the 'eleven thousand virgins.' Only consult your own dear self, my sister. You are good enough as you are."

"I think it is the feminine quality in St. Ursula's ways of thought and action that appeals so strongly to Mr. Ruskin's rugged nature," replied Mr. Sumner, in answer to a rather appealing glance from Margery's eyes. "The tale of a gentle life influences for good a somewhat embittered, but grandly noble man. As to our little Madge," with a smile that drew her at once close to him, "the best influence she can gain from the old legend will grow out of the unwavering purpose of the saint, and her inflexibility of action when once the motive was felt to be a noble one. Her needs are not the same as are Mr. Ruskin's."

Margery slipped her hand into that of the uncle who so well understood her, and gave it a tender little squeeze. As Mr. Sumner turned quickly to call attention to one or two other pictures, with different subjects, by Carpaccio, he caught for an instant the old-time sympathetic look in Barbara's eyes, which gladdened his heart, and gave a new ring to his voice.

"Here are two or three historical pictures by Carpaccio and Gentile Bellini that put ancient Venice before our eyes, and, on this account, are most interesting. Their color is fine, but in all other art qualities they are weak."

"I must tell you," he went on, "about the Bellini brothers, Gentile and Giovanni. Their father, who was also an artist, came from Padua to Venice in the early part of the fifteenth century, bringing his two young sons, both of whom grew to be greater painters than the father. They opened a school, and Giorgione and Titian, who, you well know, are two supreme names in Venetian painting, were among their pupils. The Bellini paintings are the natural precursors of the glory of Venetian art. Even in these historical paintings by Gentile Bellini we feel the palpitating sunshine which floods and vivifies the rich colors of palaces and costumes. You can readily see the difference between his work and that of Carpaccio. While Carpaccio has treated the historic scene in a poetic way, with quaint formality, Bellini's picture is full of truth and detail.

"But," he continued, "Gentile Bellini's work, as art, fades in importance before that of his brother, Giovanni, who gave himself almost wholly to religious painting. If you will try to shut your eyes for a few minutes to the other pictures about you, I would like to take you immediately to one of this artist's Madonna pictures.

"And, by the way," he interpolated, as they walked straight on through several rooms, "I am delighted to see that you have learned to go into a gallery for the express study of a few pictures, and can refuse to allow your attention to be distracted by any others, however alluring. I am sure this is the only way in which really to study. Go as often or as seldom as you choose or can, but always go with a definite purpose, and do not be distracted by the effort to see the works of many artists at a single visit; least of all, by the endeavor to look at all there are about you. For him who does this, I predict an inevitable and incurable art-dyspepsia. The reason of my express caution now is that I am taking you into the most attractive room of the gallery, and wish you to see nothing but one picture.

"Here it is!" and they paused before a large altar-piece. "You at once feel the unique character of the Madonna; the stateliness of the composition, the exquisite harmony and strength of the color.—What is it, Betty?"

"I was only whispering to Barbara that these lovely angels, with musical instruments, who are sitting on the steps of the throne are those that we have seen so often in Boston art-shops."

"And they are indeed lovely!" replied Mr. Sumner. "I will allow you to look at another picture in this room which I had forgotten as we came hither—for it is by Carpaccio—turn, and look! this Presentation in the Temple! See those musical angels also, sitting on the steps of the Madonna's throne! I am sure the middle one is familiar to you all, for it is continually reproduced, and a great favorite. Of what other painter do these angels remind you?"

"Of Fra Bartolommeo," quickly replied two or three voices.

"And I am sure," continued Mr. Sumner, "that Fra Bartolommeo never painted them until after he had visited Venice, and had learned from the study of these Venetian masters how great an aid to composition and what beautiful features in a picture they are. And Raphael never painted them until he had seen Fra Bartolommeo's work.

"But now look at Bellini's Madonna" as he turned again to the picture, "for she is as individual as Botticelli's, and is as easily recognizable. Note her stately pride of beauty, produced chiefly by the way in which her neck rises from her shoulders, and in which her head is poised upon it. Everything else, however, is in perfect keeping—from the general attitude and lifted hand to the half-drooping eyelids. Of what is she so proud? She is holding her Child that the world may worship Him. Of herself she has no thought. Botticelli's Madonna is brooding over the sorrows of herself and Son: Bellini's is lost in the noble pride that He has come to save man. The color of the picture is wondrously beautiful.

"Please note in your little books this artist's Madonnas in San Zaccaria and Church of the Frari, and go to see them to-morrow morning if you can; they are his masterpieces. I will not talk any more now. If you wish to stay here longer, it will be well to go back and look at the very earliest pictures again, or others that you will find by Carpaccio and the Bellini brothers."

Not long after, they got together one evening to talk about Titian and Giorgione. They had seen, of course, their pictures in the Florentine galleries, and Titian's Sacred and Profane Love in the Borghese Gallery, Rome; and were familiar with the rich color and superb Venetian figures and faces.

"What a pity that Giorgione died so young!" exclaimed Margery.

"Yes," replied her uncle. "He would doubtless have given to the world many pictures fully equal to Titian's. Indeed, to me, he seems to have been gifted with even a superior quality of refinement. We may see it in the contrast between his Venus in the Dresden Gallery, whose photograph you know, and Titian's two Venuses in the Uffizi, which you studied so carefully when in Florence. But there are very few examples of Giorgione's paintings in existence, and critics are still quarrelling over almost all that are attributed to him. Probably the most popular are the Dresden Venus, which has only recently been rescued from Titian and given to its rightful author, and the Concert, which you remember in the Pitti Gallery, Florence, about which there is considerable dispute, some critics thinking it an early work by Titian."

"Why did the artists not sign their pictures?" rather impatiently interrupted Malcom.

"Even a signature does not always settle questions," replied his uncle, "for it is by no means an unknown occurrence for a gallery itself to christen some doubtful picture. But to go on:—

"In Venice there is but one painting by Giorgione which is undoubtedly authentic. I will take you to the Giovanelli Palace, where it is. It is called Family of Giorgione. He was fond of introducing three figures into his compositions,—you remember the Pitti Concert,—there are also three in this Giovanelli picture—a gypsy woman, a child, and a warrior. The landscape setting is exceedingly beautiful, and the whole glows with Giorgione's own color.

"About Titian," continued he, "you have read, and can easily read so much that I shall not talk long. His whole story is like a romance; his success and fame boundless; his pictures scattered among all important galleries."

"Has Venice a great many?" queried Malcom.

"No, Venice possesses comparatively few; and, strangely enough, these are not most characteristic of the painter. His name, you know, is almost indissolubly connected with noble portraits, magnificent mythological representations, and those ideal pictures of beautiful women of which he painted so many, and which wrought such a revolution in the character of succeeding art. Hardly any of these, though so entirely in keeping with the brilliant city, are in Venice to-day; we must go elsewhere, to Madrid, to Paris, Florence, Rome, Dresden, and Berlin to find them. One mythological picture only, Venus and Adonis, is in the Academy, and one portrait of a Doge, doubtfully ascribed to Titian, is in the Ducal Palace."

"Then what pictures are here?" asked Bettina, as Mr. Sumner paused.

"His greatest religious paintings, those gorgeous church pictures, most of which were painted in his youth, are here."

"May I interrupt a moment," queried Barbara, "to ask what you meant when you said that some of Titian's pictures wrought a revolution in art?"

"This is a good time in which to explain my meaning. Titian's nature was not devout. You will see it in every one of these religious paintings you are about to study. The subjects seem only pretexts, or foundations, for the gorgeous display of a rare artistic ability. To paint beauty for beauty's sake only, in form, features, costumes, and accessories was Titian's native sphere, and gloriously did he fill it. In these church pictures, the Madonna and Child are almost always entirely secondary in interest. In many, the family of the donor, with their aristocratic faces and magnificent costumes, and the saints with waving banners, are far more important. A fine example of this is the Madonna of the Pesaro family in the Church of the Frari. With such a motif underlying his work, the great painter fell easily into the habit of portraying ideal figures, especially of women,—'fancy female figures,' one writer has termed them,—whose sole merit lies in the superb rendering of rosy flesh, heavy tresses of auburn hair, lovely eyes, and rich garments. Such are his Flora, Venuses, Titian's Daughter—of which there are several examples—Magdalens, etc.; together with many so called portraits, such as his La Donna Bella in the Pitti, Florence.

"Titian could paint such pictures so free from coarseness, so magnificent in all art qualities, that the world was delighted with them. After him, however, the lowered aim had its influence; poorer artists tried to follow in his footsteps, and the world of art soon became flooded with mediocre examples of these meaningless pictures. All this hastened rapidly the decay of Italian art.

"But you must remember," Mr. Sumner hastened to say, as he watched the faces about him, "that I am giving you my own personal thoughts. To me, the purity of sentiment and the lofty motif of a picture mean so much that they always influence my judgment of it. With many other people it is not so. They revel in the color, the line, the tone, the grouping, the purely art qualities. In these Titian, as I have said, is perfect, and worthy of the high place he holds in the art-world.

"I hope you will take great pains to study him here by yourselves,—in the Academy and in the various churches,—wherever there are examples of his work. Let each form his own judgment, founded on that which he finds in the pictures. The work of any artist of the High Renaissance, whose aim is purely artistic, is not difficult to understand. His means of expression were so ample that it is easy indeed to read that which he says, compared with the earlier masters. You will find two of Titian's most notable pictures in the Academy,—the Assumption of the Virgin, one of the few in which the Madonna has due prominence, and which shows the artist's best qualities, and Presentation of the Virgin."

"What other Venetian Masters ought we particularly to study?" asked Barbara.

"Look out for Crivelli's Madonnas, and all of Paul Veronese's work. He was really the most utterly Venetian painter who ever lived. He painted Venice into everything: its motion, its color, its intoxicating fulness are all found in his mythological and banquet scenes. You will find his pictures in the Ducal Palace, in the Academy, and a fine series in San Sebastiano, which represents legendary scenes in the life of St. Sebastian. Go to Santa Maria Formosa and look at Palma Vecchio's St. Barbara, his masterpiece. You will also find several of this artist's pictures in the Academy worth looking at. His style at its best is grand, as in the St. Barbara, but he did not always paint up to it, by any means.

"As to the rest, study them as a whole. The Venice Academy is an epitome of Venetian painting, from its earliest work down through the High Renaissance into the Decadence. It was full of pure and devotional sentiment, rendered with good, oftentimes rich, color, until after the Bellini. Then the portrayal of purely physical beauty, with refinement of line and gorgeousness of color, became preeminent. The works of several artists of note, Palma Vecchio, Palma Giovine, Bonifazio Veronese, and Bordone, so resemble each other and Titian's less important works, that there has been much uncertainty as to the true authorship of many of them."

"And Tintoretto?" questioned Barbara.

"I will take you to see Tintoretto's pictures—or many of them at least," added Mr. Sumner. "He stands alone by himself."



Chapter XIX.

In a Gondola.

And on her lover's arm she leant, And round her waist she felt it fold, And far across the hills they went In that new land which is the old.

—TENNYSON.



Lucile Sherman, accompanied by her friends, had arrived in Venice, and though not at the same hotel, yet she spent all the time she could with Mrs. Douglas, and wished to join her in many excursions. She had found it very wearisome to tarry so long in Rome, but there had been no sufficient reason for following the party to Florence and on to Venice; therefore it had seemed the only thing to do.

Now that she was again with them she watched Mr. Sumner and Barbara most zealously. Her quick eyes had noted the altered condition of affairs during the latter days of the Naples journey, and she was feverishly anxious to understand the cause. Her intuition told her that there was some peculiar underlying interest for each in the other, and when this exists between a man and woman, some sequel may always be expected. One thing was certain; Mr. Sumner covertly watched Barbara, and Barbara avoided meeting his eye. She could only wait, while putting forth every effort to gain the interest in herself she so coveted.

And Barbara, of course, was trying to determine whether there was any ground for the suspicions, or rather suggestions, that Malcom gave voice to on that dreadful ride to Sorrento.

And Bettina watched all three; and so did Malcom, after a fashion, but he was less keenly interested than the others. He sometimes tried to talk with Bettina about the studio incident, but never could he begin to discuss Barbara in the slightest way without encountering her sister's indignation.

Mrs. Douglas, who had outlived her former wish concerning her brother and Lucile Sherman, and Margery were the only ones who had nothing to hide, and so gave themselves simply to the enjoyment of the occurrences of each hour.

"We must begin to see Tintoretto's paintings," said Mr. Sumner at breakfast one fine morning; "and, since the sun shines brightly, I suggest that we go at once to the Scuola di San Rocco, for the only time to see the pictures there is the early morning of a bright day."

"We must not forget Lucile," said Mrs. Douglas, with an inquiring look at her brother, "for she asked particularly to go there with us."

"Then we must call for her of course," quietly answered he, as all rose from the table. "We will start at once."

"I do not believe," said Bettina, as she and Barbara were in their room putting on their hats a moment afterward, "that Mr. Sumner cares one bit more for Lucile Sherman than for anybody else."

"Why don't you think so?" asked Barbara, as she turned aside to find her gloves, which search kept her busy for a minute or two.

"Because he never seems to take any pains to be where she is—he does not watch for the expression of her eyes—his voice never changes when he speaks to her," answered Bettina, slowly, enumerating some of the signs she had observed in Mr. Sumner with respect to Barbara.

Neither of the girls stopped to think how singular it was that Bettina should have watched Mr. Sumner closely enough to make such a positive assertion as this, which, perhaps, is a sufficient commentary on the state of their minds at this time.

After a delightful half hour of gliding through broad and narrow canals, they landed in front of the Church of San Rocco, and passed into the alleyway from which is the entrance of the famous Scuola. As they stepped into its sumptuous hall, Miss Sherman remarked:—

"I see that Mr. Ruskin says whatever the traveller may miss in Venice, he should give much time and thought to this building."

"Mr. Ruskin has championed Tintoretto with the same fervor that he has expended upon Turner," replied Mr. Sumner, smiling. "I think we should season his judgments concerning both artists with the 'grain of salt'.

"But," continued he, as he saw all were waiting for something further, "there can be no doubt that Tintoretto was a great painter and a notable man. To read the story of his life,—his struggles to learn the art,—his assurance of the worth of his own work, and his colossal ambitions, is as interesting as any romance."

"I was delighted," interpolated Malcom, "with the story of his first painting for this building, and the audacity that gained for him the commission to paint one picture for it every year of his remaining life.

"And here are about fifty of them," resumed Mr. Sumner, "in which we may study both his strength and his weakness. No painter was ever more uneven than he. No painter ever produced works that present such wide contrasts as do his. He could use color as consummately as Titian himself, as we see in his masterpiece, The Miracle of St. Mark, in the Academy; yet many of his pictures are almost destitute of it. He could vie with the greatest masters in composition; yet there are many instances where he seems to have thrown the elements of his pictures wildly together without a single thought of artistic proportions and relations. In some works he has shown himself a thorough master of technique; in others his rendering is so careless that we are ashamed for him. But all this cannot alter the fact that he is surpassingly great in originality, in nobility of conception, and in a certain poetic feeling,—and these are qualities that set the royal insignia upon any artist."

"I cannot help feeling the motion, the action, of all these wild figures," exclaimed Bettina, as she stood looking about in a helpless way. "I seem to be buffetted on all sides, and the pictures mix themselves with each other."

"It is no wonder. No painter was ever so extravagant as he could be. There is a headlong dash, an impetuous action in his figures when he wills, that remind us of Michael Angelo; but Tintoretto's imagination far outran that of the great Florentine master. Yet there is a singular sense of reality in his most imaginative works, and it is this, I think, that is sometimes so confusing and overwhelming. His paintings here are so many that I cannot talk long about any particular one. I will only try to tell you what qualities to look for—then you must, for yourselves, endeavor to understand and come under the spell of the personality of the artist.

"In the first place," he continued, "look for power—power of conception, of invention, and of execution. For instance, give your entire attention for a few minutes to this Massacre of the Innocents. See the perfect delirium of feeling and action—the frenzy of men, women, and children. Look also for originality of invention. Combinations and situations unthought of by other painters are here. There is never even a hint of plagiarism in Tintoretto's work. In his own native strength he seizes our imagination and, at will, plays upon it. We shudder, yet are fascinated."

"Oh, uncle! I don't like it!" cried Margery, almost tearfully. "I don't wish to see any more of his pictures, if all are like these."

"Madge—puss," said Malcom, "this is a horrible subject. Not all will be like this."

"No, dear," said her mother, sympathizingly, "I don't like it either. You and I will choose the pictures we are to look at long. There are many of Tintoretto's that you will enjoy, I know,—many from which you can learn about the artist, as well as from such as these."

"We cannot doubt the dramatic power of Tintoretto, can we?" asked Mr. Sumner, with a suppressed twinkle of the eye. "What shall we look for next? Let us ascend this beautiful staircase. Now look at this Visitation. Is it not truly fine, charming in composition, graceful in action, agreeable in color, and true and noble in expression?"

All agreed most eagerly with Mr. Sumner's opinion of the picture. Then, turning, Bettina caught sight of an Annunciation, and cried:—

"How thoroughly exquisite! See those lovely angels tumbling over each other in their haste to tell the news to Mary! How brilliant! Surely Tintoretto did not paint this!"

"No. This is by Titian; and it is one of his most happy religious pictures too. I thought of it as we were coming, and am glad to have you see it. The whole expression is admirable; and the fulness of life and joy—the jubilation—is perfect. You can in no way more vividly feel the difference between fourteenth-century painting in Florence, and the sixteenth-century or High Renaissance work in Venice, than by recalling Fra Angelico's sweet, calm, staid Annunciations, and contrasting them with this one."

"But why do I feel that, after all, I love Fra Angelico's better, and should care to look at them oftener?" rather timidly asked Barbara.

"I think," replied Mr. Sumner, after a little pause, "that it is because, in them, the spiritual expression dominates the physical. We recognize the fact that the artist has not the power to picture all that he desires to express. His art language is weak; therefore there is something left unsaid, and this compels our attention. We wish to understand his full meaning, so come to his pictures again and again.

"It is this quality of the fourteenth-century painting that impelled the Pre-Raphaelites, German and English, to discard the chief motif of the High Renaissance, which was to picture everything in its outward perfection. They thought that this very perfection of artistic expression led to the elimination of spiritual feeling."

"But how can artists go back now and paint as those did five centuries ago?" queried Malcom. "Of course, if they study methods of the present day, they must know all the principles underlying a true and artistic representation—and it would be wrong not to practise them."

"You have at once found the weak point in the Pre-Raphaelites' principle of work, Malcom. It is forced and artificial to do that in the nineteenth century which was natural and charming in the fourteenth. That which our artists of to-day must do if they desire any reform is to so fill themselves with the comprehension of spiritual things—so strive to understand the hidden beauty and harmony and truth of nature—that their works may be revelations to those who do not see so clearly as do they. To do this perfectly they must ever, in my opinion, give more thought to the thing to be expressed than to the manner of its expression; yet they must render this expression as perfectly as the present conditions allow. But I think I have talked before of just this thing. And we must turn again to Tintoretto."

Not only this forenoon, but many others, were spent in the Scuola di San Rocco in the study of Tintoretto's paintings. At first they shuddered at his most vivid representations of poor, sick, wretched beings that cover these immense canvases dedicated to the memory of St. Roch, whose life was devoted to hospital work; then were fascinated by the power that had so ruthlessly portrayed reality. They studied his great Crucifixion,—as a whole, in detailed groups, and then its separate figures,—until they began to realize the magnitude of its conception and rendering. Mr. Sumner had said that nowhere save in Venice can Tintoretto be studied, and all were anxious to understand his work.

At the Academy, close by Titian's great Assumption of the Virgin, they found Tintoretto's Miracle of St. Mark, and saw how noble could be, at their best, his composition and drawing, and how marvellous his coloring of sky, architecture, costume, and flesh. They went to the various churches, notably, Santa Maria del Orto, to see good examples of his religious painting; and to the Ducal Palace for his many mythological pictures, and his immense Paradiso. Finally they were happy in feeling that they could comprehend, in some little degree, the spirit of this strange, powerful artist and his work.

One rainy evening, toward the close of their stay in Venice, all sat in the parlor, discussing a most popular novel recently published. It was written in an exceedingly clever manner; indeed, possessed an unusual degree of literary merit. But like many other books then being sent forth, the tale was very sad.

The hero, Richard,—poor, proud, and painfully morbid,—would not believe it possible that the woman whom he passionately loved,—a woman whose life was filled with luxury, and who was surrounded by admirers,—could ever love him; and so he went out from her and all the possibilities of happiness, never to know that her heart was his and might have been had for the asking. The happiness of both lives was wrecked.

"I think no author ought to write such a story," said Mrs. Douglas, emphatically. "Life holds too much that is sad for us all to justify the expenditure of so much unavailing sympathy. The emotion that cannot work itself out in action takes from moral strength instead of adding to it. It is a pity to use so great literary talent in this way."

"But do not such things sometimes happen, and is it not a literary virtue to describe real life?" queried Barbara, from her corner amidst the shadows.

"Is it an especially artistic virtue to picture deformity and suffering just because they exist? I acknowledge that a picture or a book may be fine, even great, with such subjects; but is it either as helpful or wholesome as it might have been?" argued Mrs. Douglas.

"Yet in this book the characters of both hero and heroine grow stronger because of their suffering," suggested Bettina.

"But such an unnecessary suffering!" rather impatiently asserted Malcom. "If either had died, then the other might have borne it patiently and been just as noble. But such a blunder! I threw the book aside in disgust, for the author had absorbed me with interest, and I was so utterly disappointed."

Mr. Sumner had been reading, and had not joined in the conversation, but Bettina thought she saw some evidence that he had heard it; and when, throwing aside his paper, he stepped outside on the balcony, she obeyed an impulse she could never afterward explain to herself, and followed him. Quickly putting her hand on his, she said, with a fluttering heart, but with a steady voice:—

"Dear Mr. Sumner, do not do as Richard did."

Then drawing back in consternation as she realized what she had done, she gasped:—

"Oh, forgive me! Forget what I have said!"

She tried to escape, but her hand was in a grip of iron. "What do you mean? Tell me, Betty. Barbara—" His voice failed, but the passion of love that blazed in his eyes reassured her.

"I will not say another word. Please let me go and never, never tell Barbara what I said;" and as she wrenched her hand from him, and vanished from the balcony, her smiling face, white amidst the darkness, looked to Robert Sumner like an angel of hope. Could it be that she intended to give him hope of Barbara's love—that sweet young girl—when he was so much older? When she knew that he had once before loved? But what else could Betty have meant? Had he been blind all this time, and had Betty seen it? A hundred circumstances sprang into his remembrance, that, looked at in the light of her message, took on possible meanings.

Robert Sumner was a man of action. As soon as his sister retired to her own room, he followed, and then and there fully opened his heart to her. He told her all, from the first moment when Barbara began to monopolize his thoughts, and confessed his struggles against her usurpation of the place Margaret had so long held.

To say that Mrs. Douglas was astonished does not begin to express the truth. She listened in helpless wonder. As he went on, and it became evident to her what a strong hold on his affections Barbara had gained, the fear arose lest he might be on the brink of a direful disappointment. At last, when he ended, saying, "I shall tell her all to-morrow," she could only falter:—

"Is it best so soon, Robert?"

"Soon!" he cried. "It seems as if I have waited years! Say not one word against it, sister. My mind is made up!"

But he could not tell her the hope Bettina had given, which was singing joyfully in his heart all the time. And so Mrs. Douglas was tortured all through the night with miserable forebodings.

The next morning Bettina was troubled at the look of resolve she understood in Mr. Sumner's face, and almost trembled at the thought of what she had done. "But I am sure—I am sure," she kept repeating, to reassure herself.

A last visit to the Academy had been planned for the afternoon. They walked thither, as they often loved to do, through the narrow, still streets and across the little foot-bridges. Mrs. Douglas, with Margery and Miss Sherman, arrived first, and, after a few minutes' delay, Bettina and Malcom appeared.

"Uncle Robert has taken a gondola to the banker's to get our letters, mother," said Malcom, in such a peculiar voice that his mother gave him a quick look of interrogation.

"Where is your sister?" asked Miss Sherman, sharply, turning to Bettina as Mrs. Douglas passed into an adjoining room.

"Mr. Sumner asked her to help him get the letters," replied she, demurely.

Miss Sherman reddened, and Malcom's eyes danced.

"How strange!" said Margery, innocently.

The pictures were, unfortunately, of secondary interest to all the group save Margery; and, as Mr. Sumner and Barbara did not return, they, before very long, declared themselves tired, and returned home. The truth was, each one was longing for private thought.

Meanwhile Barbara and Mr. Sumner were on the Grand Canal. The sun shone brightly, and Mr. Sumner drew the curtains a little closer together to shield Barbara's face and, perhaps, his own. The gondolier rowed slowly. "Where to?" he had asked, and was answered only by a gesture to go on. So on they floated.

Barbara had obeyed without thought Mr. Sumner's sudden request to accompany him. But no sooner had they stepped into the gondola than she wished, oh, so earnestly! that she had made some excuse.

As Mr. Sumner did not speak, she tried to make some commonplace remark, but her voice would not reach her lips; so she sat, flushed and wondering, timid and silent.

At last he spoke, gravely and tenderly, of his early life, when she, a little girl, had known him; of his love and hope; of his sorrow and the years of lonely work in foreign lands; of his sister's coming; of his meeting with them all, and of how much they had brought into his life. But, as he looked up, he could not wait to finish the story as he had planned. He saw the sweet, flushed face so near him, the downcast eyes, the little hand that tried to keep from trembling but could not, and his voice grew sharp with longing:—

"Barbara! oh, little Barbara! you have made me love you as I never have dreamed of love. Can you love me a little, Barbara? Will you be my wife?" And he held out his hands, but dared not touch her.

Would she never answer? Would she never lift the eyelids that seemed to droop more and more closely upon the crimson cheeks? Had he frightened her? Was she only so sorry for him? Was Betty mistaken, after all?

But when, with a voice already quivering with apprehension, he again spoke her name, what a revelation!

With head thrown back and with smiling, though quivering, lips, Barbara looked at him, her eyes glowing with the unutterable tenderness he had sometimes dreamed of. She did not utter a word, but there was no need. The whole flood of her love, so long repressed, spoke straight to his heart.

The gondola curtains flapped closer in the breeze. The gondolier hummed a musical love-ditty, while his oars moved in slow rhythm. It was Venice and June.



Chapter XX.

Return from Italy.

To come back from the sweet South, to the North Where I was born, bred, look to die; Come back to do my day's work in its day, Play out my play— Amen, amen say I.

—ROSSETTI.



When Robert Sumner and Barbara returned, they found Mrs. Douglas alone. At the first glance she knew that all was well, and received them with smiles, and tears, and warm expressions of delight.

In a moment, however, Barbara—her eyes still shining with the wonder of it all—gently disengaged herself from Mrs. Douglas's embrace and went in search of her sister.

"Aren't you thoroughly astonished, Betty dear?" she asked, after she had told the wonderful news.

"Yes, Bab; more than astonished."

And Bettina's quibble can surely be forgiven. Not yet has she told her sister of the important part played by herself in bringing the love-affair to so happy a consummation; nor has Robert Sumner forgotten her prayer, "never, never tell Barbara!"

When evening came and Barbara was out on the balcony with Mr. Sumner, while the others were talking gayly of the happy event, Bettina suddenly felt an unaccountable choking in the throat. She hurried to her room, and there, in spite of every effort, had to give up to a good cry. She could not have told the cause, but we, the only ones beside herself who know this pitiful ending of all her bravery, understand and sympathize with her.

An hour later, when she had conquered herself and was coming slowly down the staircase, she found Malcom waiting to waylay her. Drawing her arm within his, and merrily assuming something of a paternal air, he said:—

"Now that this little family affair has reached a thoroughly satisfactory culmination, I trust that things will again assume their normal appearance. For the past month or so Barbara has been most distraite; uncle has so evidently tried to be cheerful that the effort has been distressing; and you, little Lady Betty, have been racking your precious brains for a scheme to make things better."

"And you, Malcom," she retorted, "have had so much sympathy with us all that wrinkles have really begun to appear on your manly brow." And she put up her hand lightly as if to smooth them away.

"Look out, Betty!" with a curious flash of the eyes, as he seized her hand and held it tightly. "The atmosphere is rather highly charged these days."

Bettina's face slowly flushed as she tried to make some laughing rejoinder, and a strange painful shyness threatened to overtake her when Malcom, with a smile and a steady look into her eyes, set her free.

Meanwhile Margery was saying to her mother:—

"How pleasant it is to have everybody so happy!"

"Yes, dear. Do you know why I am so very happy?" and as Margery shook her head, her mother told her that her Uncle Robert had decided to go home to America, and that never again would he live abroad.

"It is more like a story than truth. Uncle to go home, and Barbara to be his wife! You did not think, did you, mamma, what would come from our year in Italy? Just think! Suppose you had not asked Barbara and Betty to come with us! What then?"

"That is too bewildering a question for you to trouble yourself with, my child. There is no end to that kind of reasoning.

"And," she added gently, "it is not a question that Faith would ask. The only truth is that God was leading me in a way I did not know, and for ends I could not foresee. That which I did from a feeling of pure love for my dear neighbors and friends was destined to bring me the one great blessing I had longed for during many years. Oh! it does seem too good to be true that Robert is so happy, and that he is coming home."

And for the seventieth-times-seven time Mrs. Douglas breathed a silent thanksgiving as she heard the approaching footsteps of her brother.

For Barbara and Robert Sumner the last days spent in Venice were filled with a peculiar joy. The revulsion of feeling, the unexpected, despaired-of happiness, the untrammelled intercourse, the full sympathy of those dear to them,—all this could be experienced but once.

Only one person was out of tune with the general feeling. This was Lucile Sherman. She returned a polite note in reply to that which Mrs. Douglas had at once sent her containing information of her brother's engagement to Barbara. In it she wrote that her friends had very suddenly decided to leave Venice for the Tyrol, and she must be content to go with them without even coming to say good-by and to offer, in person, her congratulations. Mrs. Douglas at first thought of going to her, if but for a moment; then decided that perhaps it would be best to let it be as she had so evidently chosen.

In a few days they also left Venice,—for Milan, stopping on the way for a day or two at Padua. They were to visit this city chiefly for the purpose of seeing Giotto's frescoes in the Arena Chapel, and Mantegna's in the Eremitani, although, as Mr. Sumner said, the gray old city is well worth a visit for many other reasons. The antiquity of its origin, which its citizens are proud to refer to Antenor, the mythical King of Troy, accounts for the thoroughly venerable appearance of some quarters. It is difficult, however, to believe that it was ever the wealthiest city in upper Italy, as it is reported to have been under the reign of Augustus. During the Middle Ages it was one of the most famous of European seats of learning. Dante spent several years in Padua after his banishment from Florence, and Petrarch once lived here. All these things had been talked over before they alighted at the station, and, driving through one of the gates of the city, went to their hotel.

All were eager to see whatever there was of interest. As it would be best to wait until morning for looking at the pictures, they at once set forth and walked along the narrow streets lined with arcades, and through grassy Il Prato, with its fourscore and more statues of Padua's famous men ranged between the trees. They saw the traditional house of Petrarch, and that of Dante, in front of which stands a large mediaeval sarcophagus reported to contain the bones of King Antenor, who, according to the poet Virgil, founded the city. They admired the churches, from several of which clusters of Byzantine domes rise grandly against the sky, noted the order, the quiet, that now reigns throughout the streets, and talked of the fierce, horrible warfare that had centuries ago raged there.

The next morning they spent among Giotto's frescoes, over thirty of which literally cover the walls of the Arena Chapel. The return to the work of the early fourteenth century, after months spent in study of the High Renaissance, was like an exchange of blazing noon sunshine for the first soft, sweet light that heralds the coming dawn. They were surprised at the freshness and purity of color and at the truth and force of expression. They had forgotten that old Giotto could paint so well. They found it easy now to understand in the artist that which at first had been difficult.

"Do you not think that Dante sometimes came here and sat while Giotto was painting?" by and by asked Margery, in an almost reverent voice.

"I do not doubt it," replied Mrs. Douglas. "Tradition tells us that they were great friends, and that when here together in Padua they lived in the same house. I always think of Giotto as possessing a jovial temperament, and as being full of bright thoughts. He must have been a great comfort to the poor unhappy poet. Without doubt they often walked together to this chapel; and while Giotto was upon the scaffolding, busy with his Bible stories, Dante would sit here, brooding over his misfortunes; or, perhaps, weaving some of his great thoughts into sublime poetry."

Afterward they went to the Eremitani to see Mantegna's frescoes, and thought they could see in the noble work of this old Paduan master what Giotto might have done had he lived a century or more later.

Mr. Sumner, however, said that he was sure that Giotto, with his temperament, could never have wrought detail with such exactness and refinement as did Mantegna—but also, that Giotto's color would always have been far better than Mantegna's. The likeness between the two artists is the intense desire of each to render expression of thought and feeling.

The following day, on their way from Padua to Milan, they were so fortunate as to be all in the same compartment, and as their train rushed on, their conversation turned upon Leonardo da Vinci, whose works in Milan they were longing to see.

During their stay in Florence they had read much about this great artist, and Mr. Sumner now suggested that each tell something he had learned concerning him.

Margery began, and told how he used always to wear a sketch-book attached to his girdle as he walked through the streets of Florence, so that he might make a sketch of any face whose expression especially attracted him; how he would invite peasants to his studio and talk with them and tell laughable stories, that he might study the changes of emotion in their faces; and how he would even follow to their death criminals doomed to execution, in order to watch their suffering and horror.

"He did not care much for the form or coloring or beauty of faces;—only for the expression of feeling," she added.

"But," said Malcom, after waiting a moment for the others to speak if they chose, "he studied a host of other things, also. For in the letter he sent to Duke Ludovico of Milan asking that he might be taken into his service, he wrote that he could make portable bridges wonderfully adapted for use in warfare, also bombshells, cannon, and many other engines of war; that he could engineer underground ways, aqueducts, etc.; that he could build great houses, besides carrying on works of sculpture and painting. And there were many other things that I do not now remember. It seems as if he felt himself able to do all things. I believe he did make a magnificent equestrian statue of the duke's father. And he studied botany and astronomy, anatomy and mathematics, and all sorts of things besides. I really do not see how he could have got much painting in."

"He has left only a very few pictures to the world," said Barbara. "We saw two or three at Florence, but I think only one—that unfinished Adoration of the Magi—is surely his. We shall see the Last Supper and Head of Christ at Milan. Then there are two or three in Paris and one in London I think these are all," and she looked inquiringly at Mr. Sumner, who smilingly nodded confirmation of her words.

"But," she went on, with an answering smile, "I do not think this was due to lack of time, for on these few pictures he probably spent as much time as ordinary artists do in painting a great many. He was never satisfied with the result of his work. His aims were so high and he saw and felt so much in his subjects that he would paint his pictures over and over again, and then often destroy them because he could not produce what he wished. I think he was one of the most untiring of artists."

"I have been especially interested," said Bettina, after a minute or two, "in the story of the Last Supper which we shall soon see."

She then went on to tell the sad tale of Beatrice d'Este,—the good and beautiful wife of harsh, wicked Duke Ludovico. How she used to go daily to the church Santa Maria delle Grazie to be alone,—to think and to pray; and how, after her early death, the duke, probably influenced by remorse because of his cruelty to her, desired Leonardo to decorate this church and its adjoining monastery with pictures in memory of his dead young wife. The only remaining one of these is the Last Supper in the refectory of the old monastery. And the famous Head of Christ in the Brera Gallery, Milan, is only one of perhaps hundreds of studies that he made for the expression which he should give to his Christ in the Last Supper,—so dissatisfied was he with his renderings of the face of our Saviour. And even with his last effort he was not content, but said the head must ever go unfinished.

"I am glad to hear you say that this Head of Christ was produced simply as a study of expression," remarked Mr. Sumner. "I am sure this fact is not understood by many who look upon it. I know of no other artistic representation in the world that is so utterly just an expression and nothing more;—a fleeting expression of some inner feeling of which the face is simply an index. And this feeling is the blended grief and love and resignation that filled the heart of our Saviour when He said to His disciples, 'One of you shall betray me.' It is a simply wrought study, made on paper with charcoal and water-color. The paper is worn, its edges are almost tattered; yet were it given me to become the possessor of one of the world's art-treasures—whichever one I should choose—I think I should select this. You will know why when you see it."

"What a pity that the great picture, the Last Supper, is so injured," said Malcom, after a pause. "Is it as bad as it is said to be, uncle?"

"It is in a pretty bad condition, yet, after all, I enjoy it better than any copy that has ever been made. The handiwork of Leonardo, though so much of it has been lost, is yet the expression of a master; any lesser artist fails to render the highest that is in the picture. Both the Duke and Leonardo were in fault for its present condition. The monastery is very low, and on extremely wet ground. Water has often risen and inundated a portion of the building. It is not a fit place for any painting, as the Duke ought to have known. And, then, Leonardo, instead of painting in fresco, used oils, and of course the colors could not adhere to the damp plaster; so they have dropped off, bit by bit, until the surface is sadly disfigured."

"Why did Leonardo do this?" inquired Margery.

"He was particularly fond of oil-painting, because this method allowed him to paint over and over again on the same picture, as he could not do in fresco."

Mr. Sumner looked out of the window, and then hastened to say:—

"I think you all have learned that the chief quality of Leonardo da Vinci's work is his rendering of facial expression—complex, subtile expression: yet he excelled in all artistic representation;—in drawing, in composition, in color, and in the treatment of light and shade. He easily stands in the foremost rank of world painters. But, see! we are drawing near to Milan,—bright, gay little Milan,—the Italian Paris."

One day, soon after their arrival, as they were in the Brera Gallery, looking for the third or fourth time at Leonardo's Head of Christ, Barbara remarked that she was disappointed because she could not find any particular characteristic of this great artist's work, as she had so often been able to do with others. "I feel that I cannot yet recognize even his style," she lamented.

"You have as yet seen none of the pictures which contain his characteristic ideal face," replied Mr. Sumner. "But there is work here in Milan by Bernardino Luini, who studied Leonardo so intimately that he caught his spirit in a greater degree than did any other of his followers. Indeed, several of Luini's pictures have been attributed to Leonardo until very recently. This is a picture by Luini—right here—the Madonna of the Rose-Trellis. The Madonna is strikingly like Leonardo's ideal in the long, slender nose, the rather pointed chin, the dark, flowing hair,—and, above all, in the evidence of some deep thought. If it were Leonardo's, there would be, with all this, a faint, subtile smile. See the treatment of light and shade,—so delicate, and yet so strong. This is also like Leonardo."

After a few minutes spent in study of the picture, Mr. Sumner continued: "There is a singular mannerism in the backgrounds of Leonardo's pictures. It is the representation of running water between rocks,—a strange fancy. We see the suggestion of it through the window behind Christ in the Last Supper, and it forms the entire background of the famous Mona Lisa, in the Louvre. There is a beautiful picture by Luini, The Marriage of St. Catherine, in the Poldi-Pezzoli Museum here in Milan, to which we will go at once. The faces are thoroughly Leonardesque, and through an open window in the background we clearly see the streamlet flowing between rocky shores.

"But first," he added, as they turned to go out, "let us go into this corridor where we shall find quite a large number of Luini's frescoes, which have been collected from the churches in which he painted them. I think you will grow familiar with Leonardo's faces through study of Luini."

During the stay in Milan they went down to Parma for a day, just to look at the fine examples of Correggio's works in the gallery and churches. In this city they could get the association of this artist with his works as nowhere else.



Mr. Sumner told them that it was a good thing to give especial attention to Correggio while studying Leonardo, because there is a certain similarity, and yet a very wide difference, between their works. Both painters were consummate masters of the art. Their beautiful figures, perfect in drawing and full of grace and life, melt into soft, rich shadows. Both loved especially to paint women, and smiling women; but the difference between the smiles is as great as between light and darkness. Leonardo's are inexplicable; are wrought from within by depths of feeling we cannot understand. Correggio's only play about the lips, and are as simple as childhood. Leonardo's whole life was given to the study of mankind's innermost emotions. Correggio was no deep student of human nature.

"When you go to Paris and see Mona Lisa, you will understand me better," he said in conclusion.

Delightful weeks among the Italian lakes and the mountains of Switzerland followed. Then came September, and it was time to turn their faces homeward. A week or two was spent in Paris, whose brilliance, fascinating gayety, and beauty almost bewildered them, and in whose great picture-gallery, the Louvre, they reviewed the art-study of the year.

Then they were off to Havre to take a French steamship home. Mr. Sumner had decided to return with them, and a little later in the fall to go back to Florence to settle all things there,—to give up his Italian home and studio. So there was nothing but joy in the setting forth.

* * * * *

"How can we wait a whole week!" exclaimed Bettina, as the two sisters were again unpacking the steamer trunks in their stateroom. "How long one little week seems when it comes at the end of a year, and lies between us and home!"

Barbara's thought flew back to the like scene on the Kaiser Wilhelm a year ago, when her mind had been busy with her father's parting words, and her eyes were very dark with feeling as she spoke:—

"Have you thought, Betty, how much we are taking back?—how much more than papa thought or we expected even in our wildest dreams? All this intimate knowledge of Florence, Rome, and Venice! All these memories of Italy,—and her art and history!"

Then after a moment she continued with changed voice: "And our friendship with Howard!—and the great gift he gave by which we have been able to get all these beautiful things we are taking home to the dear ones, and by which life is so changed for them and us!—and—"

"Barbara!" softly called Mr. Sumner's voice from the corridor.

"And," repeated Bettina, archly, with a most mischievous look as her sister hastened from the room to answer the summons.

At last the morning came when the steamship entered New York harbor; and the evening followed which saw the travellers again in their homes,—which restored Barbara and Bettina to father, mother, brothers, and sisters. There was no end of joy and smiles and happy talk.

After a little time Robert Sumner came, and Dr. Burnett, taking him by both hands, looked through moist eyes into the face he loved, and had so long missed, saying:—

"And so you have come home to stay,—Robert,—my boy!"

"Yes," in a glad, ringing voice,—withdrawing one hand from the doctor's and putting it into Mrs. Burnett's eager clasp—"yes, Barbara and Malcom have brought me home. Malcom showed me it was my duty to come, and Barbara has made it a delight."



Epilogue.

Three Years After.

In one of New England's fairest villas, only a little way from the spot where we first found her, lives Barbara to-day. For more than two years she has been the wife of Robert Sumner. The faces of both tell of happy years, which have been bounteous in blessing. A new expression glows in Robert Sumner's eyes; the hint of a life whose energy is life-giving. All his powers are on the alert. His name bids fair to become known far and wide in his native land as a force for good in art, literature, philanthropy, and public service. And in everything Barbara holds equal pace with him. Whatever he undertakes, he goes to her young, fresh enthusiasm to be strengthened for the endeavor; he measures his own judgment against her wise, individual ways of thinking, and gains new trust in himself from her abiding confidence.

In the library of their home, surrounded by countless rare souvenirs of Italy, hangs a portrait of Howard Sinclair given to Barbara by his aged grandmother, who now rests beside her darling boy in beautiful Mount Auburn.

Dr. Burnett's low, rambling house has given place to a more stately one; but it stands behind the same tall trees, amidst the same wide, green spaces. And here is Bettina,—the same Betty,—broadened and enriched by the intervening years of gracious living; still almost hand in hand with her sister Barbara. Together they study and enjoy and sympathize; and together they are striving to bless as many lives as possible by a wise use of Howard's gift to Barbara.

They are not letting slip that which they learned of the art of the Old World, but are adding to it continually in anticipation of the time when they will again be in its midst. They believe that study of the old masters' pictures is a peculiar source of culture, and they delight in procuring photographs and rare reproductions for themselves and their friends. Their faces are familiar in the art-stores and picture galleries of Boston.

Good Dr. and Mrs. Burnett have grown more than three years younger by dropping so many burdens of life. They no longer count any ways and means save those of enlarging their own and their children's lives, and of making their home a happy, healthful centre from which all shall go forth daily to help in the world's growth and to minister to its needs.

Richard, Lois, Margaret, and Bertie, endowed with all the best available helps, are hard at work getting furnished for coming years.

Margery, entering into a lovely young womanhood, still lives with her mother and Malcom in the grand old colonial house in which many generations of her ancestors have dwelt.

Mrs. Douglas is quite as happy in the close vicinity of her brother as she thought she would be. Every day she rejoices in his home, in his work and growing fame. Barbara grows dearer to her continually as she realizes what a blessing she is to his life. Indeed, so wholly natural and just-the-thing-to-be-expected does it now seem that her brother should fall in love with Barbara, that she grows ever more amazed that she did not think of it before it happened; and, when she recalls her surmises and little sisterly schemes concerning him and Lucile Sherman, she wonders at her own stupidity.

For Malcom the three years have been crowded with earnest work. He fully justified the confidence his mother had reposed in him when she gave him the year abroad, by entering, on his return, the second year of the University course.

A few months ago he graduated with high honors, and is now just beginning the study of law. When admitted to the bar he will enter, as youngest partner, the law firm of which for over thirty years his grandfather was the head.

And through all he is the same frank, wholesome-hearted, strong-willed, but gentle Malcom that we knew in Italy.

The other day he entrusted to his mother and sister a precious secret that must not yet be divulged. They were delighted, but did not seem greatly surprised.

Bettina knows the secret.

THE END