After it was over, we went back to Beata’s father’s house to find the little lame brother (who was getting better all the time) waiting for us at the gate--he had seemed glad to stay with the Grandmother--and Beata kissed him first, and then her Grandmother, and every one talked and laughed and joked. And then the refreshments, which were black bread, bright orange cheese, figs, and wine, were passed, and they did taste good. Just before we left a new guest came, and she carried the tiniest baby I had ever seen, which was only three days old, and I was very much surprised when I found out it was hers; because Daddy always makes the mothers of babies stay in bed at least two weeks, and sometimes much longer. But it seems that all the peasants get up after two or three days, and when this woman said she had had to miss the wedding because of doing a big wash, I was more surprised, but very glad she came, for she let me hold the baby, who was named Leo Paolo Giovanni Battista Vincenzo Negri, and was _so_ cunning. When the shadows were beginning to grow long and turn purple, we started back toward Florence, which lay before us in its valley cup, with all its spires and towers gilded by the last, yellow-gold sunlight. I felt a little sad, going in; I don’t know why, unless perhaps it was because Miss Bannister and Miss Meek and Mr. Hemmingway had had so fine a time, and I kept wondering, as they talked--excitedly and as fast as they could and all at once--what they would do after we left. But Fate and Mr. Wake helped them. Early in March I heard from Miss Sheila that she would be in Florence some time during April, but I didn’t tell Mr. Wake of this, for since that day at Certosa we hadn’t talked much of Miss Sheila. And the very same day that I heard that, Leslie came to me, with one of the big, square envelopes in her hand that came so often since she had written Ben Forbes. “Ben Forbes is coming over,” she stated. “Isn’t that _dandy_?” I answered. I had been practising; I had added an hour and was doing five a day, at that time. “I think so,” she said, looking down. “Has he ever been here before?” I asked, and she responded quickly and with a little remnant of her old irritation in her voice. “Heavens, _yes_, child!” she replied, “_dozens_ of times, of course! But not lately. He says he realizes that he has been keeping himself too tightly moored, and that he wants a few weeks of real play. . . . He wants me to plan the whole time for him--” “Well,” I said, “I think that’s _great_! What are you going to do?” “Oh, take him to the Boboli Gardens, and that sort of thing--he likes outdoors and isn’t too keen for pictures--and we’ll walk. . . . Where is that little place where you buy cakes, down in that covered street near the Arno?”