Leaning over the rail, I gazed upon the white, sun-blanched Tuscan town, and recognized the gay Passeggio with its avenue of dusty tamarisks, its long rows of high white houses with their green persiennes, and Pancaldi’s and the other baths, built out upon the rocks into the sea. Years ago, when at the convent, we had gone there each summer, a dozen or so girls at a time, under the kindly care of Suor Angelica, to obtain fresh air and escape for a fortnight or so the intolerable heat of July in the Lily City. How well I remembered that long promenade, the Viale Regina Margherita, but known to those happy, light-hearted, improvident Livornesi by its ancient name, the Passeggio. And what long walks we girls used to have over the rocks beyond Antignano, or scrambling climbs up to the shrine of the miracle-working Virgin at Montenero. Happy, indeed, were those summer days with my girl friends--girls who had now, like myself, grown to be women--who had married, and had experienced all the trials and bitterness of life. A thought of her who was my best friend in those past days recurred to me--pretty, black-haired, unassuming Annetta Ceriani, from Arezzo. She had left the college the same week as myself, and our parting had been a very hard one. In a year, however, she had married, and was now a princess, the wife of Cesare Sigismondo, Prince Regello, who, to give him all his titles, was “Principe Romano, Principe di Pinerolo, Marchese di Casentino, Conte di Lucca, Nobile di Monte Catina.” Truly the Italian nobility do not lack titles. But poor Annetta! Her life had been the reverse of happy, and the last letter I had received from her, dated from Venice, contained the story of a woman heart-broken. Yes, as I stood there on the deck of the Vispera approaching the old sun-whitened Tuscan port many were the recollections of those long-past careless days which crowded upon me, days before I had known how weary was the world, or how fraught with bitterness was woman’s love. Already the light was shining yellow in the high, square old light-house, although the sun had not altogether disappeared. Half-a-dozen fine cruisers of the British Mediterranean Squadron were lying at anchor in line, and we passed several boats full of sun-tanned liberty men on their way to the shore for an evening promenade, for the British man-o’-warsman is always a welcome guest in Leghorn. At last, when within a quarter of a mile of the breakwater, I heard old Mr. Keppel, who stood close to me, speaking to the captain. “I shall send a couple of packets on board in the morning, and also a box, Davis. Put the latter below in a safe place. Lock it up somewhere.” “Very well, sir,” answered the man, in his smart uniform, leaning over the rail of the bridge. “And we sail for Naples after the things are on board?” “Yes. And wait there for me.” “Very well, sir.” And then he turned to give some directions to the helmsman.