“Now, that’s right, Florida,” said her mother, as the four stood in the pale, estranging moonlight. “I’m sure Don Ippolito can’t cherish any resentment. If he does, he must come in and wash it out with a glass of wine--that’s a good old fashion. I want you to have the wine at any rate, Don Ippolito; it’ll keep you from taking cold. You really must.” “Thanks, madama; I cannot lose more time, now; I must go home at once. Good night.” Before Mrs. Vervain could frame a protest, or lay hold of him, he bowed and hurried out of the land-gate. “How perfectly absurd for him to get into the water in that way,” she said, looking mechanically in the direction in which he had vanished. “Well, Mrs. Vervain, it isn’t best to be too grateful to people,” said Ferris, “but I think we must allow that if we were in any danger, sticking there in the mud, Don Ippolito got us out of it by putting his shoulder to the oar.” “Of course,” assented Mrs. Vervain. “In fact,” continued Ferris, “I suppose we may say that, under Providence, we probably owe our lives to Don Ippolito’s self-sacrifice and Miss Vervain’s knowledge of German. At any rate, it’s what I shall always maintain.” “Mother, don’t you think you had better go in?” asked Florida, gently. Her gentleness ignored the presence, the existence of Ferris. “I’m afraid you will be sick after all this fatigue.” “There, Mrs. Vervain, it’ll be no use offering _me_ a glass of wine. I’m sent away, you see,” said Ferris. “And Miss Vervain is quite right. Good night.” “Oh--_good_ night, Mr. Ferris,” said Mrs. Vervain, giving her hand. “Thank you so much.” Florida did not look towards him. She gathered her mother’s shawl about her shoulders for the twentieth time that day, and softly urged her in doors, while Ferris let himself out into the campo. IX. Florida began to prepare the bed for her mother’s lying down. “What are you doing that for, my dear?” asked Mrs. Vervain. “I can’t go to bed at once.” “But mother”-- “No, Florida. And I mean it. You are too headstrong. I should think you would see yourself how you suffer in the end by giving way to your violent temper. What a day you have made for us!” “I was very wrong,” murmured the proud girl, meekly. “And then the mortification of an apology; you might have spared yourself that.” “It didn’t mortify me; I didn’t care for it.” “No, I really believe you are too haughty to mind humbling yourself. And Don Ippolito had been so uniformly kind to us. I begin to believe that Mr. Ferris caught your true character in that sketch. But your pride will be broken some day, Florida.” “Won’t you let me help you undress, mother? You can talk to me while you’re undressing. You must try to get some rest.”