Miss Colbourne walked across to the corner of the room that held her especial treasures. There stood a bookshelf brought from Bellagio by a friend, carved out of the olive wood with inlaid work. On the bottom shelf were arranged her Italian books, one or two rare editions among them. Above was a fine likeness of Dante and a plaster medallion of Savonarola, with some trifling objects picked up by friends on their wanderings. One of the most precious of these treasures was the dainty portfolio which she now brought forward and laid on the table. Jessie took it up eagerly. “Lena amused herself last winter,” said Miss Colbourne, “with collecting all the views she could find to illustrate _Romola_. She knows it is my favourite story.” “And did she make the case too?” “Yes, out of a piece of Italian silk. These are the Florentine lilies she has embroidered on the front.” Miss Colbourne untied the ribbons—green, white, and blue—carefully, and showed the contents—the Via de Bardi, Santa Croce, the Convent of San Marco, and many another. “Lena could not get pictures of all the places,” she said, “so she took several sketches herself. These in the side-pocket don’t belong exactly to _Romola_—they are photographs of some of the great pictures in the Galleries.” “How well you explain it!” said Jessie admiringly as she put the case carefully back. “Just as if you had been there! But you haven’t been to Italy, have you?” “No,” said Miss Colbourne, “but I hope to go soon,” and her face glowed with suppressed fervour. “It has been the dream of my life to see Italy ever since I was a little girl. It seemed impossible then, but now I think it may be managed next year.” After Jessie had gone, Miss Colbourne settled down to her books. It was after eight when Mrs. Coombes, the churchwarden’s wife, bustled in. She was a stout, pleasant little woman who knew everyone’s business. “Good evening, Miss Colbourne. Why, bless me, you have let your fire out! Aren’t you cold?” “I have been busy and forgot it,” said Miss Colbourne apologetically, rising to meet her, “and it is rather early for fires, don’t you think?” “Oh, I don’t know! It looks pretty dismal without one on a wet evening. I have just run in to pay for Gertie’s lessons. Mr. Coombes wrote you out a cheque two or three days ago, but I’ve been too busy to get round with it.” While Miss Colbourne was receipting the account, Mrs. Coombes went on— “I suppose you have heard about Mrs. Bateson? I can’t say that I was surprised.” “No,” said Miss Colbourne, turning round, her pen suspended in her hand. “What is it? Nothing wrong, I hope?” “It seems when she went home in August her mother wasn’t satisfied with her looks and made her see a physician. He said she is consumptive—one lung affected—and that she ought to winter abroad.” “Dear, dear, I am sorry!”