“Ben brought this,” she said, “I think from New York; anyway he saw Aunt Sheila somewhere--” and then she left, and I, alone, read the note, which held surprising and nice news for me. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO A WALK ON A SUNDAY AFTERNOON Miss Sheila was at the Convent of San Girolamo, which is a hospital that is managed by nuns, at Fiesole. And she had written me about her plan to go there before the ship landed. “I was very stupid and caught a little cold,” (I saw in her pretty hand. Later I found out that she had come as close to pneumonia as any one can!) “and the ship’s doctor thinks I should rest a little while. So I am going to San Girolamo where I spent a few happy weeks when I was a girl and half ailing, and you, dear child, must come to see me there. I am going to ask you not to tell Leslie I am here just now. I am very much ashamed to confess it, but the idea of much chatter appals me. Ben--who I imagine may see her!--has promised to keep quiet until I am myself, and ready to join in all the fun. And then--some parties! “Meanwhile, my dear, only your quiet, small self, and I hope I shall see you soon--Friday? You need not let me know if you can’t come then, but if you can, be assured of a warm welcome from your “Loving “SHEILA P.” Of course I went, and as soon as I saw Miss Sheila I knew why she was afraid of noise, for it was easy to see that she had been really sick. She was quite as pretty as ever, but her skin looked too transparent and it flushed too easily, and I noticed that small beads of perspiration stood out on her smooth forehead and short upper lip, simply from the little exertion and excitement of seeing me. As soon as I noticed that, I talked, very slowly and steadily, about the valley that lay below us, and I didn’t look at her until, after a silence, she said: “Jane--you are rather a marvelous child, do you know it? And a great comfort. You have what made your mother the best nurse I have ever known, a great deal of real _understanding_.” Well, I didn’t agree with her, and I knew she was too kind, but I _did_ have enough understanding of her stretched, weak, shaky feeling to know that it wasn’t the time to say--as Leslie or Viola would--“How perfectly _sweet_ of you! I am _enchanted! Nothing_ could please me more! But _why_ did you say that? _Won’t_ you explain?” Instead I said “Thank you,” which may have given the impression that I accepted all she said--however, that didn’t matter; the thing that mattered was getting her to sit back in her deck chair and lose her wound up feeling and really rest. “How is it going?” she asked, after I had asked the name of a big monastery that lay about half way down the hill below us.