To the walks Dorothy now added lessons in German and Italian. Mrs. North drove down to Florence and engaged Fräulein Bernstein and Mademoiselle Scarletti. Next, Dorothy said that she wished to take lessons in music. "A good idea. You ought to play much better than you do," said her mother. "Piano; but singing too, please," Dorothy answered. Again Mrs. North descended to Florence; Fräulein Lundborg was engaged for instrumental music, and Madame Farinelli for vocal. Dorothy wished to have a lesson each day from each of her teachers. "It's a perfect procession up and down this hill!" thought Mrs. Tracy. There was a piano in the billiard-room, and another in the drawing-room; but now Dorothy wished to have a third piano in her own sitting-room up-stairs. "But, my dear, what an odd fancy! Are you going to sing there by yourself?" her mother inquired. "Yes!" said Dorothy. "Do you think she is well?" asked Mrs. Tracy, confidentially, with some anxiety. "Perfectly well. It is the repressed life she is leading," Mrs. North answered. "But we must make the best of it. This is as good a place as any for the next three months." But again this skilful directress was forced to abandon the "good place." Early in March, when the almond-trees were in bloom, Dorothy, coming in from the garden, announced, "I _hate_ Belmonte! Let us go away, mamma--anywhere. Let us start to-morrow." "We took you to Cannes, and you did not wish to stay. We shall be leaving Belmonte in any case in June; that isn't long to wait." "You like Paris; will you go to Paris?" the girl went on. "What can you do in Paris more than you do here?" "I love the streets, they are so bright--so many people. Oh, mamma, if you could only know how dull I am!" And sinking down on the rug, Dorothy laid her face on the sofa-cushion at her mother's side. Mrs. Tracy coming in and finding her thus, bent and felt her pulse. "Yes, one hundred and fifty!" said Dorothy, laughing. "Take me to Paris, and to the opera or theatre every night, and it will go down." "Oh, you don't mean that," said the aunt, assuringly. "Yes, but I do," Dorothy answered. And then, with her cheek still resting on the cushion, she looked up at her mother. "You will take me, mamma, won't you? If I tell you that I _must_?" "Yes," replies Mrs. North, coldly. They went to Paris. And then, for four weeks, almost every night at the back of a box at the opera or at one of the theatres were three ladies in mourning attire, the youngest of the three in widow's weeds. Mrs. Tracy was so perturbed during these weeks that her face was constantly red. "Why are you so worried?" Mrs. North inquired. "I manage it perfectly; people don't in the least know." "Do I care for 'people'? It's--it's--" But she would not say "It's Dorothy." "It's ourselves," she finally ended. "Always sentimental," said Laura. Midway in the first week of April, Dorothy suddenly changed again. "I can't stay here a moment longer!" she said.