'She is home-sick'--said Mrs. Burgoyne inwardly--'I wonder whether the Lewinsons treated her nicely at Florence?' Indeed as Lucy Foster leant over the balcony, the olive-gardens and vineyards faded before her. She saw in their stead, the snow-covered farms and fields of a New England valley--the elms in along village street, bare and wintry--a rambling wooden house--a glowing fire, in a simple parlour--an old man sitting beside it.-- It _is_ chilly'--said Mrs. Burgoyne--'Let us go in. But we will keep the window open. Don't take that off.' She laid a restraining hand on the girl's arm. Miss Foster sat down absently not far from the window. The mingled lights of lamp and moon fell upon her, upon the noble rounding of the face, which was grave, a little austere even, but still sensitive and delicate. Her black hair, thanks to Mrs. Burgoyne's devices, rippled against the brow and cheek, almost hiding the small ear. The graceful cloak, with its touches of sable on a main fabric of soft white, hid the ugly dress; its ample folds heightened the natural dignity of the young form and long limbs, lent them a stately and muse-like charm. Mrs. Burgoyne and Miss Manisty looked at each other, then at Miss Foster. Both of them had the same curious feeling, as though a veil were being drawn away from something they were just beginning to see. 'You must be very tired, my dear'--said Miss Manisty at last, when she and Mrs. Burgoyne had chatted a good deal, and the new-comer still sat silent--'I wonder what you are thinking about so intently?' Miss Foster woke up at once. 'Oh, I'm not a bit tired--not a bit! I was thinking--I was thinking of that photograph in the next room--and a line of poetry.' She spoke with the _naïveté_ of one who had not known how to avoid the confession. 'What line?' said Mrs. Burgoyne. 'It's Milton. I learnt it at school. You will know it, of course,' she said timidly. 'It's the line about "the triple tyrant" and "the Babylonian woe"'-- Mrs. Burgoyne laughed. 'Their martyred blood and ashes sow O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway The triple tyrant-- Was that what you were thinking of?' Miss Foster had coloured deeply. 'It was the cap--the tiara, isn't it?--that reminded me,' she said faintly; and then she looked away, as though not wishing to continue the subject. 'She wonders whether I am a Catholic,' thought Mrs. Burgoyne, amused, 'and whether she has hurt my feelings.'--Aloud, she said--'Are you very, very Puritan still in your part of America? Excuse me, but I am dreadfully ignorant about America.' 'We are Methodists in our little town mostly'--said Miss Foster. 'There is a Presbyterian church--and the best families go there. But my father's people were always Methodists. My mother was a Universalist.' Mrs. Burgoyne frowned with perplexity. 'I'm afraid I don't know what that is?' she said.