We have said that Ombra’s attention was otherwise occupied. Had it not been so, it is probable that she would have resented and struggled against the new and unusual and humiliating consciousness of being but an appendage to her cousin; but fortunately all such ideas had been driven out of her head. A new life, a new world, seemed to have begun for Ombra. All the circumstances of their present existence appeared to lend themselves to the creation of this novel sphere. Old things seemed to have passed away, and all had become new. From the moment of the first call, made in doubt and tribulation, by the two Berties, they had resumed again, in the most natural manner, the habits of their former acquaintance, but with an entirely new aspect. Here there was at once the common bond which unites strangers in a new place—a place full of beauty and wonder, which both must see, and which it is so natural they should see together. The two young men fell into the habit of constant attendance upon the ladies, with a naturalness which defeated all precautions; and an intercourse began to spring up, which combined that charming flavour of old friendship, and almost brotherhood, with any other sentiment that might arise by the way. This conjunction, too, made the party so independent and so complete. With such an escort the ladies could go anywhere; and they went everywhere accordingly—to picture-galleries, to all the sights of the place, and even now and then upon country excursions, in the bright, cold Winter days. ‘The boys,’ as Kate called them, came and went all day long, bringing news of everything that was to be seen or heard, always with a new plan or suggestion for the morrow.

The little feminine party brightened up, as women do brighten always under the fresh and exhilarating influence of that breath from outside which only ‘the boys’ can bring. Soon Mrs. Anderson, and even Ombra herself, adopted that affectionate phrase—to throw another delightful, half-delusive veil over all possibilities that might be in the future. It gave a certain ‘family feeling,’ a mutual right to serve and be served; and at times Mrs. Anderson felt as if she could persuade herself that ‘the boys,’ who were so full of that kindly and tender gallantry which young men can pay to a woman old enough to be their mother, were in reality her own as much as the girls were—if not sons, nephews at the least. She said this to herself, by way, I fear, of excusing herself, and placing little pleasant shields of pretence between her and the reality. To be sure, she was the soul of propriety, and never left the young people alone together; but, as she said, ‘at whatever cost to herself,’ bore them company in all their rambles. But yet sometimes a recollection of Mr. Courtenay would cross her mind in an uncomfortable way. And sometimes a still more painful chill would seize her when she thought of Kate, who was thus thrown constantly into the society of the Berties. Kate treated them with the easiest friendliness, and they were sincerely (as Mrs. Anderson believed) brotherly to her. But, still, they were all young; and who could tell what fancies the girl might take into her head? These two thoughts kept her uncomfortable. But yet the life was happy and bright; and Ombra was happy. Her cloud of temper had passed away; her rebellions and philosophies had alike vanished into the air. She was brighter than ever she had been in her life—more loving and more sympathetic. Life ran on like a Summer day, though the Tramontana sometimes blew, and the dining-room was cold as San Lorenzo; but all was warm, harmonious, joyous within.

Kate, for one, never troubled her head to ask why. She accepted the delightful change with unquestioning pleasure. It was perfectly simple to her that her cousin should get well—that the cloud should disperse. In her thoughtlessness she did not even attribute this to any special cause, contenting herself with the happy fact that so it was.

‘How delightful it is that Ombra should have got so well!’ she said, with genuine pleasure, to her aunt.

‘Yes, dear,’ said Mrs. Anderson, looking at her wistfully. ‘It is the Italian air—it works like a charm.’

‘I don’t think it is the air,’ said Kate—‘privately, auntie, I think the Italian air is dreadfully chilly—at least, when one is out of the sun. It is the fun, and the stir, and the occupation. Fun is an excellent thing, and having something to do—— Now, don’t say no, please, for I am quite sure of it. I feel so much happier, too.’

‘What makes you happier, my darling?’ said Mrs. Anderson, with a very anxious look.

‘Oh! I don’t know—everything,’ said Kate; and she gave her aunt a kiss, and went off singing, balancing a basket on her head with the pretty action of the girls whom she saw every day carrying water from the fountain.

Mrs. Anderson was alone, and this pretty picture dwelt in her mind, and gave her a great deal of thought. Was it only fun and occupation, as the girl said?—or was there something else unknown to Kate dawning in her heart, and making her life bright, all unconsciously to herself? ‘They are both as brothers to her,’ Mrs. Anderson said to herself, with pain and fear; and then she repeated to herself how good they were, what true gentlemen, how incapable of any pretence which could deceive even so innocent a girl as Kate. The truth was, Mrs. Anderson’s uneasiness increased every day. She was doing by Kate as she would that another should not do by Ombra. She was doubly kind and tender, lavishing affection and caresses upon her, but she was not considering Kate’s interest, or carrying out Mr. Courtenay’s conditions. And what could she do? The happiness of her own child was involved; she was bound hand and foot by her love for Ombra. ‘Then,’ she would say to herself, ‘Kate is getting no harm. She is eighteen past—quite old enough to be “out”—indeed, it would be wrong of me to deny her what pleasure I can, and it is not as if I took her wherever we were asked. I am sure, so far as I am concerned, I should have liked much better to go to the Morrises—nice, pleasant people, not too grand to make friends of—but I refused, for Kate’s sake. She shall go nowhere but in the very best society. Her uncle himself could not do better for her than Lady Granton or Lady Caryisfort—most likely not half so well; and he will be hard to please indeed if he is discontented with that,’ Mrs. Anderson said to herself. But notwithstanding all these specious pleadings at that secret bar, where she was at once judge and advocate and culprit, she did not succeed in obtaining a favourable verdict; all she could do was to put the thought away from her by times, and persuade herself that no harm could ensue.

‘Look at Ombra now,’ Kate said, on the same afternoon to Francesca, whose Florentine lore she held in great estimation. Her conversation with her aunt had brought the subject to her mind, and a little curiosity about it had awakened within her when she thought it over. ‘See what change of air has done, as I told you it would—and change of scene.’

‘Mees Katta,’ said Francesca, ‘change of air is very good—I say nothing against that—but, as I have remarked on other occasions, one must not form one’s opinion on ze surface. Mademoiselle Ombra has changed ze mind.’

‘Oh! yes, I know you said she must do that, and you never go back from what you once said; but, Francesca, I don’t understand you in the least. How has she changed her mind?’

‘If Mademoiselle would know, it is best to ask Mees Ombra her-self,’ said Francesca, ‘not one poor servant, as has no way to know.’

‘Oh!’ cried Kate, flushing scarlet, ‘when, you are so humble there is an end of everything—I know that much by this time. There! I will ask Ombra herself; I will not have you make me out to be underhand. Ombra, come here one moment, please. I am so glad you are better; it makes me happy to see you look like your old self; but tell me one thing—my aunt says it is the change of air, and I say it is change of scene and plenty to do. Now, tell me which it is—I want to know.’

Ombra had been passing the open door; she came and stood in the doorway, with one hand upon the lintel. A pretty, flitting, evanescent colour had come upon her pale cheek, and there was now always a dewy look of feeling in her eyes, which made them beautiful. She stood and smiled, in the soft superiority of her elder age, upon the girl who questioned her. Her colour deepened a little, her eyes looked as if there was dew in them, ready to fall. ‘I am better,’ she said, in a voice which seemed to Kate to be full of combined and harmonious notes—‘I am better without knowing why—I suppose because God is so good.’

And then she went away softly, crooning the song which she had been humming to herself, in the lightness of her heart, as her cousin called her. Kate was struck with violent shame and self-disgust. ‘Oh, how wicked I am!’ she said, rushing to her own room and shutting herself in. And there she had a short but refreshing cry, though she was by no means given to tears. She had been brought up piously, to be sure—going to church, attending to her ‘religious duties,’ as a well-brought-up young woman ought to do. But it had not occurred to her to give any such visionary reason for anything that had happened to her. Kate preferred secondary causes, to tell the truth. But there was something more than met the ear in what Ombra said. How was it that God had been so good? Kate was very reverential of this new and unanswerable cause for her cousin’s restoration. But how was it?—there was still something, which she did not fathom, beyond.

Such pleasant days these were! When ‘the boys’ came to pay their greetings in the morning, ‘Where shall we go to-day?’ was the usual question. They went to the pictures two or three days in the week, seeing every scrap of painting that was to be found anywhere—from the great galleries, where all was light and order, to the little out-of-the-way churches, which hid, in the darkness of their heart of hearts, some one precious morsel of an altar-piece, carefully veiled from the common public. And, in the intervals, they would wander through the streets, learning the very houses by heart; gazing into the shop windows, at the mosaics, on the Lung-Arno; at the turquoises and pearls, which then made the Ponte Vecchio a soft blaze of colour, blue and white; at the curiosity shops, and those hung about with copies in which Titian was done into weakness, and Raphael to imbecility. Every bit of Florence was paced over by these English feet, one pair of which were often very tired, but never shrunk from the duty before them. Most frequently ‘the boys’ returned to luncheon, which even Mrs. Anderson, who knew better, was prejudiced enough to create into a steady-going English meal. In the afternoon, if they drove with Lady Caryisfort to the Cascine, the Berties came to the carriage-windows to tell them all that was going on; to bring them bouquets; to point out every new face. When they went to the theatre or opera in the evening, again the same indefatigable escort accompanied and made everything smooth for them. When they had invitations, the Berties, too, were invariably of the party. When they stayed at home the young men, even when not invited, would always manage to present themselves during the evening, uniting in pleasant little choruses of praise to Mrs. Anderson for staying at home. ‘After all, this is the best,’ the young hypocrites would say; and one of them would read while the ladies worked; or there would be ‘a little music,’ in which Ombra was the chief performer. Thus, from the beginning of the day to the end, they were scarcely separated, except for intervals, which gave freshness ever renewed to their meeting. It was like ‘a family party;’ so Mrs. Anderson said to herself a dozen times in a day.