“In the Boboli gardens,” answered Viola, on a guess that later proved correct. “Hum--hope she drove over. Aren’t they warning people at the bridges to-day?” he ended, with a questioning look toward Sam who had gone down to the town that morning. (On very hot days sentinels, who stand at the entrance to the bridges, warn people against crossing them, for it is a risk to do this during the middle hours of the day) “No,” Sam replied, “I wandered over the Ponte Vecchio without a word from any one--” “The real heat will come soon,” Mr. Wake prophesied. “Think,” he went on, “I’ll go to Switzerland in June.” “Poor Miss Meek,” I put in, “hates the heat so and has to stay here--” “Pshaw,” said Mr. Wake, “that is too bad--Look here,” he said quickly, after a second’s pause, “I have some Italian friends who want a governess; I believe they are going to Viareggio for the hot months. Would she touch that?” “She’d _love_ it,” I answered quickly, “she’s wanted a post for ages, but it’s so hard to get one now, since every one’s so poor from the war--” “And fancy the little Italian beggars saying, ‘My eye! How jolly,’” put in Sam. Every one laughed. “Won’t hurt ’em,” said Mr. Wake easily, “for they won’t know it’s not top notch proper and the latest thing! I’ll talk to Lucca to-morrow, and after that I’ll let you know, Jane. Believe I can fix it--” And he did. I thought of him a lot going down. So much that Sam thought I felt badly from the heat. But the heat hadn’t made my depression. I had so wanted Miss Sheila and Mr. Wake to know and like each other. They were both lonely, and I loved them both and they seemed alike and suited to like each other in lots of ways. And I could tell that Mr. Wake needed Miss Sheila from the manner in which he had talked of her at the beginning of our friendship. And now it was all over; I could never present my dear friend to her, nor talk of my Fairy Godmother to him! It did seem all wrong, but as Leslie and Viola both said, things turn out as one doesn’t expect them to. I had hoped--of course it was silly--but I had hoped a lot. And now even my chance for hoping had disappeared. “Are you sure,” asked Sam, “that the heat hasn’t done you up?” “Sure,” I answered dully. “He’s wild over you,” said Viola as we toiled up the stairs that we had come to call “The last, long mile.” . . . We had sent Sam off at the door, because he had to walk back to the Piazza del Duomo again to get his car, and the town was still heavy and sultry with the heat that the day had held. “Nonsense!” I answered sharply. “Yes, he is. We might have a double wedding--” I was furious. “I’m going home to play the organ in the First Presbyterian Church,” I stated, “and to give music lessons, and I won’t have time to get married for _years_!” She laughed. “I’m only eighteen,” I added, and with resentment. “I’ll bet on twenty for you,” she said teasingly.