“She’s certainly a striking looking woman, and most generous and charitable,” returned Mrs. Carfax. “My husband would not know what to do without her financial and other help, in the parish. Certainly we know very little about her life before she settled at Dymfield ten years ago,” she added rather uncertainly. “Good works are the modern equivalent for the convent, aren’t they?” suggested Madame Didier. “She’s a charming woman,” repeated Mrs. Carfax in a slightly dazed voice. “No doubt. Yet I know one woman who doesn’t describe her in those terms. Did you ever meet a Mrs. Crosby? No? Well, she is firmly convinced that Miss Page robbed her of her inheritance.” “If the doctor is at all wise, he will go and look after his wife,” suggested Aunt Laura, her remark making a timely but unconscious diversion. “I’ll see what I can do,” observed Mrs. Carfax with significance. Madame Didier looked a little alarmed. “Please don’t mention my name!” she begged. “Remember I have said nothing, and that, only in Madge’s interest.” “Discretion is my strong point,” returned Mrs. Carfax with dignity. “I am no gossip, and the last thing in the world I should wish to do, is to make mischief.” “You are always so wise, dear Mary,” murmured Mrs. Lovell. The ladies talked till a late hour, and Mrs. Carfax went to bed full of an excitement which she was shocked to recognize as distinctly pleasurable. XI Tiring a little of hotel life, Anne had taken an apartment on the heights close to the Church of the Trinità dei Monti. In her sunny room overlooking the city, in the intervals between her rambles, or the interchange of visits, she spent quiet happy hours. In Rome, as in no other Italian city, time slipped back, and the life of twenty years ago seemed often more real, more tangible, than her existence of to-day. Over and over again, in Rome, she was startled to find herself living not in the present, but in the memory of an unforgetable past. One morning, in walking through the Farnesina Palace, she stopped before a window to look down upon a narrow walled garden. The paths were mossy and weed-grown; the whole place pervaded by that air of neglect and decay, common to Italian gardens. But at the end of the enclosed oblong space, there was a beautiful old gate of marble. Orange trees in rows, ran the length of the right-hand wall, and between the glossy leaves, the fruit shone golden. In the centre grass plot, amidst the long unkempt grass, there were rose bushes with pale pink monthly roses upon them; and overhead a roof of sky blue as the heart of a gentian. Miss Page turned her head quickly, a half smile upon her lips, as though to speak to some one at her side. It was twenty years since she had looked down upon that quiet garden, but the illusion of a bygone day was so strong, that she expected to meet a responsive smile. * * * * *