Then he bethought himself if he could get an introduction to some of the principal houses in Florence; then if any party or _fete_ were given, he should be sure to see her. Even in this he succeeded. With the help of Gregory Leslie he was introduced to some of the best houses in Florence. He met many English--he heard nothing of Doris. People thought he had a wonderful fancy; whenever he heard of any English children, he never rested until he had seen them. Some one told him that Lady Cloamell had three nice little girls; his heart beat high and fast; perhaps Doris was the governess--Doris lived, Doris lived. He armed himself with some pretty sketches, and then asked permission to see the little ladies. Lady Cloamell was much gratified. "Tell the governess to come with them," she said to the servant who went in search of them. And Earle sat down with a white face and beating heart. It was all a waste of emotion. When the governess did come in, she was ugly and gray-haired. Poor Earle! he had to endure many such disappointments. "She is not in Florence," he said to himself at last. "I must go elsewhere." It was not until the hope was destroyed that he knew how strong it had been--the disappointment was bitter in the extreme. He woke one morning resolved upon leaving Florence the next day. The sun was shining, the birds singing; his thoughts flew to England and the sweet summer mornings when he had wandered through the green lanes and fields with his love. His heart was heavy. He raised his despairing eyes to the bright heavens, and wondered how long it was to last. The morning was fair and balmy; he thought that the air would refresh him, and perhaps when he felt less jaded and tired, some inspiration might come to him where to search next; so he walked through the gay streets of sunny Florence until he came to the lovely banks of the Arno. The scene was so fair--the pretty villas shining through the trees. He walked along till he came to a green patch shaded by trees whose huge branches touched the water; there he sat down to rest. Oh! thank Heaven for that few minutes' rest. He laid his head against the trunk of a tree, and bared his brow to the fresh sweet breeze. He had been there some little time when the sound of a woman's voice aroused him--the sweet laughing tones of a woman's voice. "You may leave me," it said. "I shall not run away. I shall enjoy a rest by the river." Dear Heaven! what voice was it? It touched the very depths of his heart, and sent a crimson flush to his brow. For one short moment he thought he was back again in the woods of Quainton. Then his heart seemed to stop beating; then he leaned, white, almost senseless, against the trees; then he heard it again. "Do not forget my flowers; and remember the box for 'Satanella.' It is one of my favorite operas. _Au revoir._"