If Bice was looking pretty, she was changed, changed even since they had left Florence. Her eyes were bright and large, but they had dark lines under them; the round cheek had lost something of its sweet young curve; a pathetic appeal every now and then touched you in her voice. But she had not lost her decision. It was she who had brought Mrs Masters and Kitty. She was eager, interested, wanting to know everything, only Phillis could answer half her questions. Mrs Masters went back before long and sat in the carriage, the others climbed hither and thither, under the great arches, tier above tier. It is like climbing centuries and ages to mount those great steps, worn by many feet. The sun beats down upon them all, untempered now by the silken awning which used to stretch across the vast expanse. Where the Vestal Virgins sat, delicate plants spring from between the stones, maiden hair waves softly in remembrance. And as you go up, and the great area discloses itself, its greatness, its might, its majesty, its silence, will touch you, if you let them, with an awful power. Rome lies before you, clothed in purple and regal shadows; the Campagna stretches away towards surrounding hills; black cypresses point; all about you the solemn arches frame some picture which belongs to the world's history; all about you the lights float, golden, rose, flashing into dark corners, and marked out by keen shadows. Phillis stole away by herself, but she found that Bice soon followed her, and as if she were seeking occasion for saying something. And, indeed, she was too impetuous long to keep back anything she had to say. She caught Phillis's hand and dragged her to a great block of travertine, where they were out of hearing of the others, and from which they could see. Santa Maria Maggiore glowing in the sunlight, and roofs stretching away into blue distance. "Sit there," she said imperatively. "Oh, I have wanted to see you! I am very, very miserable." "What has happened?" People's sympathy is as different as people are themselves. Phillis's was very delicate and gentle--it seemed to ask for nothing, and yet to give just what was wanted. Tones and looks had more to do with it than words. Bice lifted her heavy wistful eyes to hers with satisfaction. "Nothing has happened," she said, "and that is the worst part of it all, don't you think? If only one could set up one's trouble before one, quite distinct and alive, there would be a chance of fighting it, of coming to the end somehow." She clenched her little hand as she spoke, and a fire came into her eyes. "Perhaps," said Phillis, smiling and looking at the beautiful face, "it is better for most of us that our anxieties don't take quite such a definite shape. Suppose they should be too strong for us?" "Then there would be an end that way." Phillis changed her tone.