The road came to a sharp turn and the driver instinctively drew rein. Before them, beyond an indeterminate fore-ground of shadow, rose the city, bathed in the rays of the setting sun. Towers pierced the glowing haze, fairest of all the tower of Palazzo Vecchio, slender and tall like some stately lily, and floating bubble-like on the gold, the wonderful airy cupola of the Duomo. The long level mellow rays of sunset gave the scene an unreal aspect; it seemed that as way-worn pilgrims they had come suddenly upon the golden dream city of their desire, a city called up magically before their eyes, a glorious vision evoked by the power and wonder of their love. Above the dome and the towers, pearly clouds merging into amethyst floated in the gold-pink sky. The sound of many church-bells mellowed by the distance to a suggestion of heavenly music floated to their ears. Both felt instinctively that this was the fit ending to their perfect afternoon. In these last few hours they had attained to the apex of human happiness--whatever the future might hold in store for them, nothing could ever mar the transcendent beauty of this day, nor could they ever hope to surpass the joy, the glory of it. CHAPTER XII The door was opened to Ragna by Nando--Valentini had never permitted her to keep a latchkey--the anxiety of whose countenance was changed to relief at sight of her. "_Meno male, Signora_, that you have come at last!" "Why, Nando, what has happened?" "The Signorini are crying for you, Signora,--the Sor Padrone found them in mischief and beat them,--beat them as though to break their poor little bones--" But Ragna stayed for no more, her heart in her mouth she sped up the stairs to the room shared by the children. What had happened was this: while Carolina saw to the preparation of their _goûter_, they had wandered in search of amusement and finding the door of Egidio's studio open,--a most unusual occurrence, as he generally kept the key in his pocket when not at work, had strayed in. On the large upright easel near the window stood the portrait of a lady, all but finished, a tall beautiful lady whose white dress and long scarlet scarf threw into relief the dark beauty of her head and the slender grace of her figure. The palette with its sheaf of brushes thrust into the thumb-hole lay carelessly in the box of the easel, as Egidio had left it on going to luncheon. The boys stood hand-in-hand, gazing open-mouthed at the canvas which was lowered to the last notch, as Egidio had been working on the hair and shoulder-drapery. "What a beautiful lady," said Mimmo in awed tones, "she must be a princess!" "Yeth, a fairy princeth," agreed Beppino, on whom his mother's fairy tales had made a deep if confused impression. "I wonder why _babbo_ never lets us come into this nice house?" queried Mimmo, looking about him--to his childish eyes it seemed a Paradise of delight.