Countries attract us in different ways. We are comfortable in England, musical in Germany, amused in Paris (Paris is a country), and idyllic in Switzerland; but when it comes to the affection, Italy holds the heart--we keep going back to her. Miss Harrison, sitting in her carriage on the heights of Bellosguardo, was thinking this as she gazed down upon Florence and the valley below. It was early in the next autumn--the last of September; and she was alone. A phaeton passed her and turned down the hill; but she had recognized its occupant as he passed, and called his name--"Mr. Morgan!" He turned, saw her, bowed, and, after a moment's hesitation, ordered his driver to stop, sprang out, and came back to speak to her. "How in the world do you happen to be in Florence at this time of year?" she said, cordially, giving him her hand. "There isn't a soul in the place." "That is the reason I came." "And the reason we did, too," she said, laughing. "I am delighted to have met you; one soul is very acceptable. You must come and see me immediately. I hope you are going to stay." "Thanks; you are very kind. But I leave to-morrow morning." "Then you must come to-night; come to dinner at seven. It is impossible you should have another engagement when there is no one to be engaged to--unless it be the pictures; I believe they do not go away for the summer." "I really have an engagement, Miss Harrison; you are very kind, but I am forced to decline." "Dismiss your carriage, then, and drive back with me; I will set you down at your hotel. It will be a visit of some sort." He obeyed. Miss Harrison's fine horses started, and moved with slow stateliness down the winding road, where the beggars had not yet begun to congregate; it was not "the season" for beggars; they were still at the sea-shore. Miss Harrison talked on various subjects. They had been in Switzerland, and it had rained continuously; they had seen nothing but fog. They had come over the St. Gothard, and their carriage had broken down. They had been in Venice, and had found malaria there. They had been in Padua, Verona, and Bologna, and all three had become frightfully modern and iconoclastic. Nothing was in the least satisfactory, and Margaret had not been well; she was quite anxious about her. Mr. Morgan "hoped" that it was nothing serious. "I don't know whether it is or not," replied Miss Harrison. "Margaret is rather a serious sort of a person, I think." She looked at him as if for confirmation, but he did not pursue the subject. Instead, he asked after her own health. "Oh, I am as usual. It is only your real invalids who are always well; they enjoy their poor health, you know. And what have you been doing since I last saw you? I hope nothing out of the way. Let me see--Trieste and Tarascon; you have probably been in--Transylvania?"