Caper and his uncle were standing, as the latter spoke, under the group of stone pines, from whose feet there was a lovely view of the Albanian snow-capped mountains, and they saw coming toward them two ladies. There was the freshness of the morning in their cheeks, and though one was older than the other, joy-bringing years had passed so kindly with her, that if Caper had not known she was the mother of the younger lady--they would have passed for sisters. When he first saw them, the latter was gathering a few violets; when she rose, he saw the face of all others he most longed to see. He had first seen her the life of a gay party at Interlachen; then alone in Florence, with her mother for companion, patiently copying the Bella di Tiziano in the Pitti palace; then in Venice, one sparkling morning, as he stepped from his gondola on the marble steps of a church, he met her again: this time he had rendered himself of assistance to the mother and daughter, in procuring admittance for them to the church, which was closed to the public for repairs, and could only be seen by an especial permit, which Caper fortunately had obtained. They were grateful for his attention, and when, a few days afterward, he met them in company with other of his American friends, and received a formal introduction, the acquaintance proved one of the most delightful he had made in Europe, rendering his stay in Venice marked by the rose-colored light of a new love, warming each scene that passed before his dreamy gaze. But other cities, other faces: memory slept to awake again with renewed strength at the first flash of light from the eyes of Ida Buren, there, over the spring violets of the Villa Borghese. The meeting between Mrs. Buren, her daughter, and Caper, was marked, on the part of the ladies, with that cordiality which the truly well bred show instinctively to those who merit it--to those who, brave and loyal, prove, by word and look, that theirs is the right to stand within the circle of true politeness and courtesy. 'And so,' Mrs. Buren concluded her greeting, 'we are here in Rome, picking violets with the dew on them, and waiting for the nightingales to sing before we leave for Naples.' 'And forget,' said Caper, among the violets of Paestum, the poor flowers of the Borghese? I protest against it, and beg to add this little bouquet to yours, that their united perfume may cause you to remember them.' 'I accept them for you, mother,' spoke Ida; 'and that they may not be forgotten, I will make a sketch at once of that fountain under the ilex trees, and Mr. Caper in classic costume, making floral offerings to Bacchus--of violets.' 'And why not to Flora?' 'I have yet to learn that Flora has a shrine at--Monte Testaccio! where the Signore Caper, if report speaks true, often goes and worships.' 'That shrine is abandoned hereafter: where shall my new one be?'