Yes, packing, without doubt, takes up a great deal of time, and that must have been the reason why Mrs. Anderson and Ombra were so much occupied. They had so many things to do. Francesca, of course, was occupied with the household; she did the greater part of the cooking, and superintended everything, and consequently had not time for the manifold arrangements—the selection of things they did not immediately want, which were to be sent off direct from Leghorn, and of those which they would require to carry with them. And in this work the ladies toiled sometimes for days together.

Kate had no occasion to make a slave of herself. She had Maryanne to attend to all her immediate requirements, and, in her own person, had nothing better to do than to sit alone, and read, or gaze out of the window upon the passengers below, and the brown Arno running his course in the sunshine, and the high roofs blazing into the mellow light on the other side, while the houses below were in deepest shadow. Kate was too young, and had too many requirements, and hungers of the heart, to enjoy this scene for itself so much, perhaps, as she ought to have done. Had there been somebody by to whom she could have pointed out, or who would have pointed out to her, the beautiful gleams of colour and sunshine, I have no doubt her appreciation of it all would have been much greater. As it was, she felt very solitary; and often after, when life was running low with her, her imagination would bring up that picture of the brown river, and the housetops shining in the sun, and all the people streaming across the Ponte della TrinitÀ, to the other side of the Arno—stranger people, whom she did not know, who were always coming and going, coming and going. Morning made no difference to them, nor night, nor the cold days, nor the rain. They were always crossing that bridge. Oh! what a curious, tedious thing life was, Kate thought—always the same thing over again, year after year, day after day. It was so still that she almost heard her own breathing within the warm, low room, where the sunshine entered so freely, but where nothing else entered all the morning, except herself.

To be sure, this was only for a few days; but, after all, what a strange end it was to the life in Florence, which had begun so differently! In the afternoon, to be sure, it was not lonely. Her uncle would come, and Lady Caryisfort, and the Berties, but not so often as usual. They never came when Mr. Courtenay was expected; but Kate felt, by instinct, that when she and her uncle were at Lady Caryisfort’s, the two young men reappeared, and the evenings were spent very pleasantly. What had she done to be thus shut out? It was a question she could not answer. Now and then the young clergyman would appear, who was the friend of Bertie Eldridge, a timid young man, with light hair and troubled eyes. And sometimes she caught Bertie Hardwick looking at herself with a melancholy, anxious gaze, which she still less understood. Why should he so regard her? she was making no complaint, no show of her own depression; and why should her aunt look at her so wistfully, and beg her pardon in every tone or gesture? Kate could not tell; but the last week was hard upon her, and still more hard was a strange accident which occurred at the end.

This happened two or three days before they left Florence. She was roused early, she did not know how, by a sound which she could not identify. Whether it was distant thunder, which seemed unlikely, or the shutting of a door close at hand, she could not tell. It was still dark of the winter morning, and Kate, rousing up, heard some early street cries outside, only to be heard in that morning darkness before the dawn, and felt something in the air, she could not tell what, which excited her. She got up, and cautiously peered into the ante-room out of which her own room opened. To her wonder she saw a bright fire burning. Was it late, she thought? and hastened to dress, thinking she had overslept herself. But when she had finished her morning toilette, and came forth to warm her cold fingers at that fire, there was still no appearance of anyone stirring. What did it mean? The shutters were still closed, and everything was dark, except this brisk fire, which must have been made up quite recently. Kate had taken down a book, and was about to make herself comfortable by the fireside, when the sound of some one coming startled her. It was Francesca, who looked in, with her warm shawl on.

‘I thought I heard some one,’ said Francesca. ‘Mees Katta, you haf give me a bad fright. Why do you get up so early, without warning anyone? I hear the sound, and I say to myself my lady is ill—and behold it is only Mees Katta. It does not show education, waking poor peoples in ze cold out of their good warm bet.’

‘But, Francesca, I heard noises too; and what can be the matter?’ said Kate, becoming a little alarmed.

‘Ah! but there is nosing the matter. Madame sleep—she would not answer even when I knocked. And since you have made me get up so early, it shall be for ze good of my soul, Mees Katta. I am going to mass.’

‘Oh! let me go too,’ said Kate. ‘I have never been at church so early. Don’t say a word, Francesca, because I know my aunt will not mind. I will get my hat in a minute. See, I am ready.’

‘The Signorina will always have her way,’ said Francesca; and Kate found herself, before she knew, in the street.

It was still dark, but day was breaking; and it was by no means the particularly early hour that Kate supposed. There were no fine people certainly about the streets, but the poorer population was all awake and afoot. It was very cold—the beginning of January—the very heart of winter. The lamps were being extinguished along the streets; but the cold glimmer of the day neither warmed nor cleared the air to speak of; and through that pale dimness the great houses rose like ghosts. Kate glanced round her with a shiver, taking in a strange wild vision, all in tints of grey and black, of the houses along the side of the Arno, the arched line of the bridge, the great dim mass of the other part of the town beyond, faint in the darkness, and veiled, indistinct figures still coming and going. And then she followed Francesca, with scarcely a word, to the little out-of-the-way church, with nothing in it to make a show, which Francesca loved, partly because it was humble. For poor people have a liking for those homely, mean little places, where no grandeur of ornament nor pomp of service can ever be. This is a fact, explain it as they can, who think the attractions of ritualistic art and splendid ceremonial are the chief charms of the worship of Rome.

Francesca found out this squalid little church by instinct, as a poor woman of her class in England would find a Bethesda chapel. But at this moment the little church looked cheery, with its lighted altar blazing into the chilly darkness. Kate followed into one of the corners, and kneeled down reverently by her companion. Her head was confused by the strangeness of the scene. She listened, and tried to join in what was going on, with that obstinate English prejudice which makes common prayer a necessity in a church. But it was not common prayer that was to be found here. The priest was making his sacrifice at the altar; the solitary kneeling worshippers were having their private intercourse with God, as it were, under the shadow of the greater rite. While Francesca crossed herself and muttered her prayer under her breath, Kate, scarcely capable of that, covered her eyes with her hand, and pondered and wondered. Poor little church, visited by no admiring stranger; poor unknown people, snatching a moment from their work, market-people, sellers of chestnuts from the streets, servants, the lowliest of the low; but morning after morning their feeble candles twinkled into the dark, and they knelt upon the damp stones in the unseen corners. How strange it was! Not like English ideas—not like the virtuous ladies who patronised the daily service at Shanklin. Kate’s heart felt a great yearning towards those badly-dressed poor folks, some of whom smelled of garlic. She cried a little silently, the tears dropping one by one, like the last of a summer shower, from behind the shelter of her hand. And when Francesca had ended her prayers, and Kate, startled from her thinking, took her hand from her eyes, the little grey church was all full of the splendour of the morning, the candles put to flight, the priest’s muttering over.

‘If my young lady will come this way,’ whispered Francesca, ‘she will be able to kiss the shrine of the famous Madonna—she who stopped the cholera in the village, where my blessed aunt Agnese, of the Reparazione, was so much beloved.’

‘I would rather kiss you, Francesca,’ cried Kate, in a little transport, audible, so that some praying people raised their heads to look at her, ‘for you are a good woman.’

She spoke in English; and the people at their prayers looked down again, and took no more notice. It was nothing wonderful for an English visitor to talk loud in a church.

It was bright daylight when they came out, and everything was gay. The sun already shone dazzling on all the towers and heights, for it was no longer early; it was half-past eight o’clock, and already the forenoon had begun in that early Italian world. As they returned to the Lung-Arno the river was sparkling in the light, and the passengers moving quickly, half because of the cold, and half because the sun was so warm and exhilarating.

‘My aunt and Ombra will only be getting up,’ said Kate, with a little laugh of superiority; when suddenly she felt herself clutched by Francesca, and, looking round, suddenly stopped short also in the uttermost amaze. In front of her, walking along the bright street, were the two whom she had just named—her aunt and Ombra—and not alone. The two young men were walking with them—one with each lady. Ombra was clinging to the arm of the one by her side; and they all kept close together, with a half-guilty, half clandestine air. The sight of them filled Kate with so much consternation, as well as wonder, that these particulars recurred to her afterwards, as do the details of an accident to those who have been too painfully excited to observe them at the moment of their occurrence.

Francesca clutched her close and held her back as the group went on. They passed, almost brushing by the two spectators, yet in their haste perceiving nothing. But Kate had no inclination to rush forward and join herself to the party, as the old woman feared. After a moment’s interval the two resumed their walk, slowly, in speechless wonder. What did it mean? Perhaps Francesca guessed more truly than Kate did; but even she was not in the secret. Before, however, they reached the door, Kate had recovered herself. She quickened her steps, though Francesca held her back.

‘They must know that we have seen them,’ she said over and over to herself, with a parched throat.

And when the door was reached, the two parties met. It was Ombra who made the discovery first. She had turned round upon her companion to say some word of parting; her face was pale, but full of emotion; she was like one of the attendant saints at a martyrdom, so pale was she, and with a strange look of trance and rapture. But when her eye caught Kate behind, Ombra was strangely moved. She gave a little cry, and without another word ran into the house and up the stairs. Mrs. Anderson turned suddenly round when Ombra disappeared. She stood before the door of the house, and faced the new comers.

‘What, Kate!’ she said, half frightened, half relieved, ‘is it you? What has brought you out so early—and with Francesca, too?’

‘You too are out early, aunt.’

‘That is true; but it is not an answer,’ said Mrs. Anderson with a flush that rose over all her face.

And the two young men stood irresolute, as if they did not know whether to go or stay. Bertie Eldridge, it seemed to Kate, wore his usual indifferent look. He was always blasÉ and languid, and did not give himself much trouble about anything; but Bertie Hardwick was much agitated. He turned white, and he turned red, and he gave Kate looks which she could not understand. It seemed to her as if he were always trying to apologise and explain with his eyes; and what right had Bertie Hardwick to think that she wanted anything explained or cared what he did? She was angry, she did not quite know why—angry and wounded—hurt as if some one had struck her, and she did not care to stop and ask or answer questions. She followed Mrs. Anderson upstairs, listening doubtfully to Francesca’s voluble explanation—how Mademoiselle had been disturbed by some sounds in the house, ‘possibly my lady herself, though I was far from thinking so when I left,’ said Francesca, pointedly; and how Mees Katta had insisted upon going to mass with her?

Mrs. Anderson shook her head, but turned round to Kate at the door with a softened look, which had something in it akin to Bertie’s. She kissed Kate, though the girl half averted her face.

‘I do not blame you, my dear, but your uncle might not like it. You must not go again,’ she said, thus gently placing the inferior matter in the first place.

And they went in, to find the fire in the ante-room burning all alone, as when Kate had left, and the calm little house looking in its best order, as if nothing had ever happened there.